How I Leave My Country
by GreenWood Elf
Summary: Lieutenant Tavington did not know what he had expected…certainly not a scrawny, middle aged woman, wrapped in naught but a dressing gown who was keen on smashing saucers against the wall. Alternate history. Rated M for violence.
1. Aide de camp

**Author's Note: **Hello and welcome to the first installment of "How I Leave My Country". I say installment because this fic will be made up of a series of vignettes detailing Colonel Tavington's career in the colonies, as well as the lives of his fellow officers. These vignettes are AU, as Tavington does survive the war and follows a path similar to Tarleton's-into politics. But more on that later. The installments will most likely vary in length, some being chapter-length, others more drabblish. Canon characters from the Patriot will make appearances, along with actual historical figures and many OCs. Also, these vignettes are based around an alternate history I have been working on for some time. I originally experimented with it in my short-lived fic, "Advice to the Ladies" but hit a major writer's block. However, I am quite excited to give it a second go. Please take the time to review and tell me what you think. I always appreciate feedback, especially constructive criticism. Also, I would like to specifically thank **bubblymuggle4 **and **AliBlack **for their help in getting this story off the ground. Thank you both! I hope you enjoy and now onto part one…

**Summary: **Lieutenant Tavington did not know what he had expected…certainly not a scrawny, middle-aged woman, wrapped in naught but a dressing gown who was keen on smashing saucers against the wall.

**Rating: **For now, T, but that is subject to change as I see fit.

**Disclaimer: **I claim no ownership of the Patriot. However, I do own all OCs mentioned herein.

**Aide-de-camp**

_August, 1776_

It was with the army languishing in Staten Island, that Lieutenant William Tavington learned he had been assigned to the staff of General Percy. He was called from his quarters roughly around six in the morning, marshaled out onto the parade grounds and introduced to the _most _harried woman he had ever met.

She was standing with her ankles crossed, an ungainly position, hands tucked behind her back. Two narrow, grey eyes watched the sluggish progress of the sun beneath the film of dawn dew.

Tavington waited to be addressed, taking in the epaulettes stitched to her shoulders, the stiff, coal black leather of her boots. She was a Major. He held his tongue and saluted. The anticipated acknowledgement did not come. He cleared his throat, quietly.

The woman fair leapt out of her skin.

"Oh, so you're the boy?" she asked, head thrown back as harsh appraisal pinched her face.

Tavington hated to be inspected, hated the insolent, brash stares of his superiors. _Superiors_, humph. The very word grated against him, rubbed his flesh raw and made him feel utterly useless. But if he was to carve a career for himself in the army, he must expect _inspection._

Perhaps he should have stayed at Oxford.

Tavington sucked in his breath and nodded. "Lieutenant William Tavington."

"Well, it is about time!" The Major clicked her dainty heels together. "Her madamship's been waiting. Come!"

Two impatient fingers beckoned him forward and Tavington followed. The Major had an odd way of walking, he decided, studying her tiny legs that seemed to skip every third step. And then he remembered that it had been ten lashes to the back of some poor common soldier who had too obviously gawked at a Colonel Margaret Havens. Or perhaps it had been because he had called her a whore?

Whatever the case, Tavington preferred circumspection to public disgrace. Life in the army greatly resembled his schoolboy years, when the older children trampled on the younger ones just to make them weep.

The Major halted and Tavington slid to a stop behind her.

"There are certain things you should know, Lieutenant," she whispered as they stood halfway down a row of regimental tents. "If you are to survive this at all, that is."

Tavington laughed under his breath. He had heard much from his fellow junior officers regarding General Percy's disposition and had endured a round of obnoxious ribbing due to his new appointment. But of all the rumors, no one seemed to know anything for certain. The most solid piece of advice he had received was from a roguish sort of man, a Captain DeLancey who was an American, but seemed like a sage when compared to his British comrades.

"You're not the first," he said, slurring over a mug of stale beer, "and you certainly won't be the last. Her staff is what we call a…a sea staff. New aides come in with the high tide and are washed out by the low. With any luck, Billy, it shan't ruin your career."

So be it. Tavington certainly wasn't afraid of Percy, certainly wasn't cowed by her supposed temper, her suicidal depressions and her life-threatening flights of fancy. She _was _a woman after all.

"Madam?" He dipped his head closer to the Major. She was wringing her hands now, her skin the hue of marble with rivulets of sweat slithering down her brow.

"Don't ask questions," she said, breathless of a sudden. "And don't look her madamship in the eye. And when you walk out with her, you must stay two paces behind her and one to the side."

Trifles. Tavington nodded with a falsely serious air. "I understand."

The Major whirled about, her queue lashing out like a whip and shedding fresh powder. "And another thing, Lieutenant, if you wish to do yourself any good-and her for that matter-keep out of her bed, for God's sake."

Tavington couldn't disguise his amusement this time and fortunately, the rising wind concealed his laughter. True, women had held their place in the army for centuries-but no one could accuse them of maintaining their position with dignity.

"Understood, madam." He bowed his head, mocking both her and all bloody females at once.

The Major exhaled sharply, her hands tugging absentmindedly at her coat cuffs.

"My name is Major Covenly, by the way and I've served under Percy for nigh on three years now. Don't be a fool, Lieutenant. If you try to stand out on her staff, you'll be dismissed before the week is out. You understand, I trust."

The sudden change in her manner, the chill that frosted her warm voice bothered Tavington. He couldn't say why, exactly. But a shiver fingered his spine as he stood underneath the August sun.

Major Covenly smacked her heels together once more and trotted off. Tavington walked briskly in her wake, his mind now markedly focused on matters other than her strange way of strolling.

The lane ran off to the left and Covenly turned up a neat drive, nodding stiffly at the sentries standing on the porch of a small farmhouse.

Tavington glanced at the upper story window and from behind the dusty, paned glass he caught sight of a writing desk with a quill pen perched precariously in an inkwell. He sighed. Officers' aides were secretaries at best or so he had heard. And if he had wanted to spend several years cramped in a too small chair writing sycophantic letters to members of Parliament, he would have gotten his law degree.

Covenly was standing on the porch now, toes tapping, one hand closed over the brass doorknob.

"Are you coming, Lieutenant?" She looked feverishly harassed and her brows were pulled together, cutting lines of worry across her forehead.

Tavington hurried up the short steps, somewhat surprised to hear the sound of shattering glass resound from within the commandeered house.

A string of vile oaths followed, a woman's ratty voice screeching above the panicked pleas of a servant.

Covenly groaned and sagged against the doorjamb. "Oh, I'll never have a moment's peace," she lamented.

Tavington rolled his eyes. He certainly wouldn't play handmaid to a half-mad, wretched old veteran.

Covenly, however, seemed more troubled and with a long-suffering moan, yanked open the door and headed inside. A narrow hallway led to a back porch, the top half of the door having been left open to catch a hoped for breeze. But the house stunk, Tavington noted and there were muddy boots in the hall. A discarded horsehair wig was haphazardly hanging from a wall peg.

Covenly was muttering to herself now and Tavington was inclined to think the woman was distracted. Then with a harsh whisper, she bid him "come along" and ducked into a room off to the right. After a moment of haughty hesitation, Tavington followed. He did not know what he had expected…certainly not a scrawny, middle-aged woman, wrapped in naught but a dressing gown who seemed more than a little besides herself.

"Enough of these bloody rebels!" she shrieked, the Yorkshire accent quite pronounced. A porcelain teapot-one patterned with blue flowers-was smashed against the stone hearth.

And unbeknownst to General Percy, a young, terrified serving girl hid behind Tavington before promptly fleeing the room.

"Madam, madam." Covenly's tones were comforting, delicate. She pressed forward slowly, hands raised, fingers quivering. "I have your new aide-de-camp, madam. A Lieutenant Tavington, madam."

Percy brandished one short arm like a bayonet and Covenly fell silent.

"Who?" she asked.

"Lieutenant Tavington, madam." And here Covenly beckoned Tavington forward.

General Percy stared at him for a moment. "What of Lieutenant Andre?" she asked, referring to another unfortunate member of her staff.

Covenly clasped her hands together. "Remember, madam, he was made prisoner at St. John's last winter."

And then, with little warning, Percy's anger returned. "Wretch!" she shrieked and snatched up a saucer.

Covenly had just enough time to push Tavington out of room before the dish shattered against the door.

They stood in the hall, her panting and grasping his arm with vine-like fingers.

"Another thing, Lieutenant," she said. "Do mind your head when she takes to throwing things."

* * *

**Author's Note: **Yes, this history is quite different from ours. These vignettes will take place largely in a world in which both men and women have fought together equally for some centuries. This will be a major theme in this story, however, much of actual history will be incorporated, such as… 

The title, "How I Leave My Country" is taken from the supposed last words of William Pitt the Younger, Britain's youngest Prime Minister from 1783-1801 and 1804-1806 respectively. He will, indeed, have a significant role in this series later on.

The British did encamp on Staten Island, NY (just across the river from where I live) before launching their campaign against Washington who was entrenched at Brooklyn Heights in August, 1776.

Lieutenant Andre, Percy's previous aide-de-camp cited in this vignette, would later become the infamous Major John Andre who orchestrated the treason of Benedict Arnold. Andre was indeed captured after St. Johns in Quebec fell to the Americans in November of 1775 and was later exchanged in December of 1776. His presence on Percy's staff, however, is entirely of my own making.

Thanks so much for reading and have a wonderful weekend!


	2. Letters

**Author's Note: **I'd like to thank everyone who took the time to read the first installment and those that reviewed, **bubblymuggle4**, **TavyBeckettfan **and **Brandie Thomas**. Thanks everyone and I do hope you enjoy the second installment.

**Disclaimer: **I claim no ownership of the Patriot. However, I do own all OCs mentioned herein including Major Beatrice Covenly, General Julia Percy and Captain Thomas Ahearn.

**Letters**

_August 1776, Staten Island, New York_

"You're a cavalryman, eh?" Captain Ahearn was staring at Tavington over a sheet of parchment and a smile shaped his thin lips into a crescent.

"Once, before I came to the colonies," Tavington grunted. He folded his fingers over the edge of his writing desk and stared at the small ink stain on his sleeve. This was not soldiery, no, this was _torment_.

Ahearn looked heartily disappointed. "Oh."

Silence smothered General Percy's office once more, a stillness that was ruptured only by the stiff sea breezes that groaned against the windows.

It was a wretched day and Percy's mood only reflected the weather. She had shut herself up in her room and banished her aides downstairs to sort through piles of meaningless missives.

The army had been rotting away on the cramped island across from Brooklyn Heights-and Washington's encampment-for six weeks. And for three weeks, Tavington had been imprisoned on Percy's staff. Most of his fellow officers wagered it was a "miracle" for him to have survived so long in Her Madamship's graces. Tavington, however, tended to disagree.

His counterpart, the flighty, Irish Ahearn was yet another child wonder, having been on Percy's staff for three months. Tavington couldn't guess why, really, the man had a mouth on him that rivaled no other and many a time, he had been tempted to tear his tongue out.

Even now Ahearn was fidgeting in his chair, useless, unable to sit still and curb his energy. "I had a cousin once in the cavalry, I did. The French got him though, grapeshot. Went down beneath his horse and never got up. I suppose that happens quite often to you cavalry boys, doesn't it? It's not a pleasant notion, really, glad I took the King's Shilling and joined the infantry instead. My old grandsire wagers I could have been a grenadier, but I think-"

"Do you have the last of her correspondence?" Tavington leaned over his desk and smacked his quill pen against Ahearn's inkwell. His nerves were frayed, his resolve shattered and he would have gladly bartered his soul to be off Percy's staff. For as it seemed, his gallant career as a soldier was slowly turning into the languid existence of a luckless clerk.

"Oh." And once more, Ahearn looked disappointed. He stood, staggered over to a chest of drawers and threw a small packet at Tavington.

"She usually likes to read her letters first though," he said and there was a sense of righteous disapproval in his tone.

This time, however, Tavington could not withhold a sneer. He hated Ahearn, by God and he hated that shrew Percy and the whole of the Americas and the wretched war.

With a snarl, he broke the seal of the first dispatch and read. Ahearn made haughty noises under his breath, tsking and clicking his tongue like a capricious chicken. Tavington ignored him.

The first letter, written by some fretful man named Jenkins, was shocking. General Percy owed him two thousand pounds. And another letter from an equally agitated creditor mentioned a debt of three thousand.

Now it was Tavington's turn to cluck and he offered the huffing Ahearn a wicked smile. So Her Madamship was quite the debtor. He felt a pang of guilt, actually, remembering that his father had likewise warred with wealth, but there was something viciously satisfying in such knowledge. Perhaps Percy was a flesh and blood entity after all, not a hot-headed demon who had flipped a decanter of good port into the fire yester eve.

"Curious?" he asked Ahearn.

"I should rather be damned," was the stuffy reply.

Tavington was too intrigued now to stop, to pleased with himself to lay the letters aside. He rifled through them, one by one, splitting seals, smudging the script and inhaling the stale scent of ink. Outside it was raining, the sky weeping tiny, humid tears that danced past the window panes and made the shutters creak. The sea was revolting again, playing with the frigates anchored off Staten Island. Ahearn's pudgy face was illuminated by a sudden streak of lightening.

"If she catches you-"

"She won't." Tavington rejected reason with a laugh. Did he care, after all? Perhaps Percy would have him lashed and perhaps then he might drag his flogged hide back to the regimental tents and away from her dratted quarters. Reckless, yes, mother had always said he was reckless. Never foolish, but impulsive and what was impulsion without confidence?

"She _will_," Ahearn chirped, but he was leaning on Tavington's shoulder now, panting all over some distasteful letter from a clandestine lover Percy kept. With much annoyance, Tavington batted him away like an irksome fly.

The packet was thinning and Tavington reached for the last letter, a heavy one tied with a dainty blue ribbon and sealed with blood red wax. Ah, what for it?

He stood, tore it open and began to read aloud-much to Ahearn's mixed horror and amusement.

"_Dearest Mother." _Tavington's tongue went numb, cleaving to the roof of his mouth and leaving him mute.

Ahearn dropped back into his chair, his face colorless.

"Bloody hell."

Tavington's first response was to drop the offending piece of parchment, though he continued to stare at it with restrained revolt. _Mother_? It could not be possible, never. Tavington shook his head, ridding himself of the notion. General Percy was no mother, why she wasn't even married.

Ahearn was the first to recover, batting his green eyes a bit as he caught his breath. "What does it say?" he asked, chest heaving beneath scarlet regimentals.

Tavington managed to compose himself enough to deliver a sarcastic blow. "Ah and now you are curious?"

"No." Ahearn appeared disgusted by his own fascination. He folded his arms over his swollen stomach and frowned, lips bulging as he ran his tongue over his teeth.

"Well." Tavington's fingers lit on the parchment once more. "I certainly am." And then he snatched it up and began to read. It was a dull letter, really, not half as exciting as the harried harassment of the creditors or the longing lines of the lover. To make matters worse, the handwriting was atrocious, the sentences littered with inkblots and misspellings and every sort of error. Percy had obviously not paid much attention to her daughter's schooling and it was a shame, for the child seemed quite grown, of marriageable age at least.

The note ended with an ardent, infantile plea. Might mother lend her the money for a new blue riding habit? She would so like to ride to the hounds next Christmastide in _fashion_.

The last word was underlined several times and concluded the letter coldly. No affectionate farewell followed, save a name.

_Amelia_

It was Ahearn who heard the boots on the stairs first and he alerted Tavington with a strangled yelp before hurrying out of the room himself.

Coward, Tavington thought, though he did try to gather up as many of the letters as he could. As luck would have it, Percy stumbled into the office before he could put things in order. She looked somewhat disheveled, either from an over abundance of sleep or drink. It was always difficult to tell. Her jacket was hanging off her right shoulder and the brass buttons of her waistcoat were undone.

Her hazy eyes found the opened letters, however and Tavington met her gaze with steely fortitude. She stared at him for a full minute, let his heart beat quicken until his flesh steamed with sweat. But he did not show fear.

At length, Percy looked away, stretching out one hand into which Tavington deposited Amelia's letter.

"Mmm," Percy mumbled and she glanced at the parchment. "I wonder, what does the worthless beggar want this time?"

Tavington waited a beat before replying with, "A new riding habit, I believe, madam."

Percy gently laid the letter on Ahearn's deserted desk. "I see you've taken to reading my correspondence, Lieutenant."

"Yes, madam." And for some reason, Tavington found he could not withhold a grin.

Percy frowned. "Did Captain Ahearn not inform you that I alone may attend to my personal dispatches?"

"He did, madam."

"And where is he now?"

"Fled, madam. And I shall also say that his efforts to delay me were quite comical at best."

"Ah." Percy sniffed and her high-cut nostril's dilated, quivering like the nose of a moor hare. "Will you walk out of doors with me, Lieutenant?"

Tavington let his head fall to the side, the sound of rain echoing through the small room. "I believe it's storming, madam."

"Oh, I know." She was already out the door then and Tavington felt compelled to follow, remembering Covenly's advice and keeping a few good paces behind her. But after they had passed the pair of sentries on the porch and turned right at the _Rose and Crown _in which General Howe was housed, Percy slowed a step and linked arms with him.

"Madam?" He wasn't quite cowed enough to ignore her forwardness.

Percy smiled devilishly and tightened her grip. "Clever boy, yes, you are a clever boy, aren't you? By God I was worried, I was worried when Beatrice-that's Major Covenly-first told me about you. Not a one could replace poor Andre, said I. Not a one and now I see I was wrong, so very wrong."

She was leering at him, leering at him in lashing rain with the thunder roaring all about them like cannon. Tavington tried to take a step back, to pull away from her, but he couldn't. Mud swam around his ankles and threatened to suck the boots from his feet.

"You are a fine boy, you are," she whispered and finally let go of his arm. "I think I shall make a protégé of you, would you like that? My daughter is useless, you know, won't take to the army and I haven't a decent heir. Let me teach you, yes? I have enough sense to see your future and I say now, yes, I say now that you will make a damned fine officer one day."

Tavington felt numb and the rain slid down his neck, raising all the tiny hairs along his spine. "What of Ahearn?" he rasped, feeling overwhelmed by her sudden fondness, her assuredly uncalled for favor. "He's been on your staff much longer than I, madam."

"Ahearn!" She gesticulated wildly. "What a dumb little dog. Came over with that insufferable Colonel Havens and I felt sorry for him, I did. You see, I am capable of the greatest sympathy, Lieutenant, though his appointment had naught to do with sympathy. It's that Havens, damn her blood and Ahearn is only with me to vex her. Yes, Lieutenant, you would be good to side with me now, yes. I'll teach you, I will. Come along with me now. Yes, do."

Tavington gawked at her and felt immoral, as though he were intruding upon her private thoughts and seeing the madness-and utter genius-that lay within. And so he promised her his loyalty under the August rain and gave not another thought of returning to the regiments.

Together, they walked back down Amboy Road, the clouds clearing as a sickly sun broke through and sent mist rising off the high grass. Percy said little until they came back to the house and stopped on the porch just below the window from which a pensive Ahearn was peeking.

"The water is calm now," Percy said and she waved at the settling sea, the narrow stretch of blue that separated the British from Washington at Brooklyn Heights. "A good thing it did not storm when Admiral Howe brought his ships in. See, fortune is with us."

"Indeed, madam," Tavington replied. He was standing quite close to her, close enough to hear how shallow her breathing really was.

"And Lieutenant," she said at length, speaking in an overly loud voice, "I must insist you refrain from indulging in the shameful delights of my letters or otherwise, I shall have you lashed until your guts fall out."

* * *

**Author's Note: **The British army's headquarters were centered around New Dorp, Staten Island in August of 1776. General Howe, the commander-in-chief of the British forces, was indeed housed at the tavern _Rose and Crown _by the junction at New Dorp Lane and Amboy Road. Percy also mentions Admiral Howe, who was in fact General Howe's brother who commanded the naval reinforcements present at the Battle of Long Island. 

Colonel Havens, mentioned in this chapter, is another entirely fictional original character who will continue to play a significant role in future installments.

And now, something I rather foolishly forgot to mention in the first installment. There was in fact, another high-ranking British officer named Lieutenant-General Hugh Percy, the 2nd Duke of Northumberland. Hugh Percy distinguished himself at Lexington and Concord and continued to serve in the colonies until he returned to England in 1777 after a falling out with Howe. However, there is absolutely no relation between Hugh Percy and General Julia Percy featured in this fic. Her family background, life and actions are all entirely fictional (although her daughter is named after King George III's youngest child). Special thanks goes out to TavyBeckettfan for reminding me to include this note and I do apologize for any confusion.

Thanks so much for reading. Part Three-Long Island, will be posted shortly.


	3. Clinton

**Author's Note: **This will be the last of the chapter-length vignettes for a while, as the following installments will be more drabblish. However, there is some necessary background info for part three. The behind-the-scenes quarrel between the commanders discussed in this vignette did actually happen. Upon landing on Long Island, General Henry Clinton reconnoitered the Jamaica Pass in Brooklyn and found only five American soldiers guarding it. He therefore suggested that the army take the long way around, attacking the Rebels' left wing. This plan was ridiculed by his fellow officers, leaving Howe (the commander-in-chief) and Clinton (his second-in-command) at odds. This vignette is based solely on their disagreement and its consequences. I would like to thank everyone who took the time to read the last installment and those that reviewed, **bubblymuggle4** and **AliBlack**. I hope you enjoy!

**Disclaimer: **I claim no ownership of the Patriot. However, I do own all OCs mentioned herein including General Julia Percy.

**Clinton**

Tavington leaned against the trunk of an oak tree and watched the branches sway in the dappled sunlight. The leaves were green still, fresh, not tinged with the amber of autumn.

But to him the world seemed red, a veritable hue of vermillion that breathed in the fields below. Soldiers were shifting amongst their quickly pitched tents, yards of mud-stained canvas that were raised in vain hope. They wouldn't be in camp for long.

Tavington closed his eyes for an instant, dozing as a swift, ocean-sent breeze teased his skin. The army had crossed over from Staten Island three days ago and Tavington had spent the morning cramped in a longboat with an anxious Percy and a thoroughly sea-sick Ahearn. But now that Howe had ferried his men, a substantial force of over twenty-thousand battle-eager soldiers, over to Long Island, the operation had paused. Washington held the tip of Manhattan, his rag-tag farm boys spread out over Long Island.

And General Howe waited.

Percy was fair dancing out of her skin, her nerves frayed and frazzled. She could linger no longer and Tavington had heard her conversing with General Henry Clinton in the hot haze of yesterday's afternoon. They would propose an overnight march to surprise the Rebels in the misty dawn.

Tavington himself hoped his commanders would decide on some course or at the very least, make up their often opposed minds. Quarrels amongst the army hierarchy were common and the last three days had seen many of the high-ranking officers indulging in infantile sniping.

And all the while, the army languished.

Tavington did what he could with time and he was clever enough to stay clear of Percy when she went to headquarters. Poor, witless Ahearn was often her companion now and he had been recruited to attend staff meetings with her, occasions' that spawned notorious gossip amongst the common soldiers. Tavington wasn't curious, really. But he did feel a certain sense of dread, a shiver that slowly climbed his spine and reminded him of the battle to come.

A day or so might see him dead.

He tried to think of England now and his dear mother who lived alone in their half-decaying country estate, a place that had once been grand before his father went mad with the drink.

The army had been an easy escape for him, when what little money he had went to wine, women and song. And he was lucky. Along the way, Tavington had encountered several hopeful women wishing to buy commissions of their own, but unlike men they were often required to pass a test of officership. The days of free mingling in the ranks, of men and women enjoying equal opportunity, were over. Only women with martial quality "superior" than that attributed to their sex were allowed to become officers, which meant the army itself was populated with mindless whores too uneducated to rise in the ranks.

It was a sordid situation and the House of Commons had suggested an abolishment to the practice altogether.

But Tavington was a simple soldier and he could only think of tomorrow and the lingering moments of the day that might be his last.

A yawn wrenched his lips apart. Yes, he almost pitied Ahearn, could see him sitting there in the tight tent, cowering as Howe's staff screamed and shouted and hurled every manner of insult at each other. Tavington smiled wryly. Were he there, he would tell them a thing a two, yes a thing or two indeed…

"You worthless man, you wretch! Damn your blood, Harry!"

The voice was like a crack, a shot of shrill musketry that made his limbs tense. Tavington sat upright, hands fisting.

Percy.

Couldn't Ahearn keep her on a leash?

But she was coming now, coming up the thin, rutted lane that cut through camp. And she wasn't alone either. General Henry Clinton marched before her.

"Damned fool," Percy was panting. "Damned old fool."

Clinton turned, coat-tails swinging and faced her. A thoughtful scowl lined his lips. Not an impressive man in most ways, the General possessed the look of a churlish lion, stiff and regal with a tendency to pounce at the slightest provocation. He quarreled with most of his counterparts and separated himself from the rest. Most men envisioned him as brave, but Tavington often saw his brows knit together with nervous tension and hesitancy.

"It's enough, Julia," he said in a quiet, rolling voice. "It's enough now."

There was a beat a silence and all in that time, Percy turned pale. She reeled back, arms falling flat by her sides and then drew herself up. There was something decidedly frightening about her stance and Tavington slipped behind the oak, not willing to be drawn into one of her uncalled for assaults.

The stillness stretched on, taut, tense and then Percy exploded.

"Enough?" she screamed and he saw spittle fly from her gaping lips. "Enough? By God, Harry, by God, if you run away now, if you run away with your damned tail stuck between your damned legs. Bloody coward!"

And then Clinton was likewise undone, abandoning his feigned reserve, arms extended as he began to shout. "I'll not be battered about by the likes of _them_, Julia. You can howl at _them_ all you please. Bash their heads in, I couldn't care. God only knows they deserve it…Howe, I should like to wring his neck."

Percy paced, turned up the lane and then walked back again. But her steps were short and jerky. She threw her head from side to side and growled. "Understand, Harry, you must understand. It is _my_ career on the line. I stood by you, I did. I stood by your side! I'll not have you turn tail now, no. Harry, you promised, you swore! It's all over for me now…all over. I won't let you retreat, I bloody well won't Harry or it's my own neck in the noose!"

Clinton stared at her, his neck arched. "Enough!" he roared. "Julia, I said it's enough!"

They stood panting, shaking and then inexplicably, Percy started to laugh.

"A fine pair of fools we are," she chortled, eyes dangerously wide. "I should have known…should have known from the start of things that it would end so. But Harry, dear Harry, you cannot give up. Your plan, sir, is brilliance. Don't let Howe lead you about by the nose. Come, we'll go by the Jamaica Pass tomorrow, together, both of us. We'll take the Rebels ourselves. Don't you see now, Harry, it is us or _them_."

"I know, I know, Julia, but be quiet now." Clinton had his hands over his face and for a moment, Tavington thought he looked very weak, very small like a tin soldier meant to be crushed under one's boot. And Percy was standing there, half-mad, the powder from her neat wig dusting the air as she shook her head.

But she was quiet, subdued. With a sigh she gathered herself and seemed whole once more. "Harry, please, Harry, it's all over for my sex if we give in now. You know, you know that I am the last of rank-"

"Madam," he interrupted, dropping his hands away from his face. "Your voice carries so."

Percy sniffed. "My apologies."

Tavington frowned. He could scarce hear the two of them now and cautiously, he moved about the bole of the tree, ducking in the wide shadows of the branches. Mouths moved, tongues touching parched lips. He listened carefully and the wind carried Percy's discreet voice to him.

"There is opposition to us in the House of Commons," she said. "After General Abigail Reed was recalled last April I thought I should go with her. They are moving against _us_. I cannot give them an excuse, Harry. I _need_ this campaign. If Howe claims victory for himself, it's over…all of it."

Clinton lowered his head, cradled his chin in his palm with a snort. "You give yourself airs," he grated, "that's the trouble. Think you're a damned Boadicea."

Percy exhaled sharply. "Bah! Don't be a simpleton. I'm greedy, Harry. I want this for myself and no other. And I have six hundred years of tradition on my side. It could all end with this campaign, Harry. They only need a reason to pull us from the army, do not give it to them, you fool."

"Humph." Clinton fell away from her and knotted his hands behind his back. "You've grown stale, Julia, you and your whole sex. Caused us nothing but trouble for the last fifty years."

Percy accepted his caustic rumbling with surprising grace. "And you wouldn't have it any other way, old man. No, you wouldn't. You _need _us, see. And I need you. This campaign, it is our last leg. Don't let Howe feast on it, fat oaf that he is. And I refuse, yes, I refuse, sir, to follow Sir Billy onto the field again. Do you not know what happened at Breed's Hill, sir? Time for heroics, psh! Howe sent me up with the first charge, all right and I came back with not twenty out of two hundred men and a ball through my shoulder to show for it. At such a rate I won't last one more skirmish and I shan't see my lads and lassies lying all in their blood for nothing but _nonsense_. Nonsense, Harry, it's bloody nonsense!"

Percy was getting loud once more and Clinton chewed his lower lip.

"Hush now, madam," he whispered, "peace. There is little use lamenting over blood that's been spilt twenty times over. You see now I can do little for you. I was ridiculed, my suggestion roasted on the communal spit for them to devour. If my fellow officers hold me in such low esteem, if they will not heed my words of warning or listen to my pleas, then what am I to do?"

"You are to join with me, sir, as you promised." And without warning, Percy stepped forward and clapped a hand on Clinton's shoulder. "Remember what you swore. Hand-in-hand."

Clinton scoffed. "Hand-in-bloody hand. You've buried us both."

"Not yet," Percy chirped.

Tavington was shocked by her cheerfulness. Strange, he had never seen her happy before, never so satisfied. Eager yes, and wide-eyed with curiosity. But now she was soft and thoughtful.

There was something about her, he thought, a queer something that could not be defined. Percy had a way of wearing her coat on both sides, of playing both the madwoman and intellect at once. And there was little use in deciphering her, of dissecting the eccentricity within.

Poor Clinton seemed to have given up on that quite a while ago, anyway, for now he sighed full sore, shoulders rising beneath his regimentals, looking utterly defeated.

"Julia, I cannot countenance you anymore," he grumbled.

The wind died then and there was some noise about the camp. Tavington couldn't hear them half so well anymore and they parted quickly enough with no ceremony or friendly gesture. Percy strolled up the hill to the oak tree.

Tavington felt his heart drop into his boots. He dashed around the trunk and threw himself on the ground, pretending he had a keen interest in the cool grass swaying about his knees.

Percy passed right by him, but paused when she was a step away, her face to the summer sun touched by the grey edge of a lingering cloud.

"A commission for your silence," she said in a clipped voice. "I'll make you a captain if mum is the word."

Tavington did not hesitate. "Yes, madam."

She walked away.

* * *

**Author's Note: **Yes, this vignette was vague, I know. But Clinton _is _known as the "shy bitch". I have attempted to portray him true to form here. He was a churlish, aloof man, one who fought with every one of his counterparts and was himself paranoid. However, aside from Tavington and Major John Andre, Clinton is the most important male character in this fic. I actually like him, don't know why. Perhaps it is because I dislike old General Billy Howe.

As mentioned before, the quarrel at headquarters is based in fact and the British did end up following Clinton's plan which was a strategic success and later earned him the Order of Bath. Percy also mentions "Breed's Hill", more commonly known as the Battle of Bunker Hill in which the British won a pyrrhic victory against the Americans on June 17, 1775. The slaughter she refers to is also true. Three times Howe had his men charge up the hill into the line of fire and by the end, he was the only member of his field staff not shot. Afterwards, Howe was somewhat gun-shy and his hesitancy to encounter another "Bunker Hill" allowed for Washington's escape during the Battle of Long Island, but more on that later.

Boadicea (or Boudicca), mentioned by Clinton in this installment, was a first century warrior queen of the British Iceni tribe. She revolted in 60 A.D. after her daughters were raped by Roman soldiers and she herself was publicly flogged. In the winter of 61 A.D., however, after she had nearly cast the Roman legions from Britain, she was spectacularly defeated by the governor, Suetonius. Her history, or rather my take of it, is yet another significant facet of this fic. But again, I will certainly expand on that aspect in future installments.

Also, to avoid confusion, General Abigail Reed cited in this vignette by Percy is another entirely fictional entity along with the women's officership test Tavington reflects on.

Thanks so much for reading. Please take the time to review and share your thoughts with me.


	4. Jamaica Pass

**Author's Note: **This is the first of three interrelated vignettes based around the Battle of Long Island. I have decided against writing chapter-length installments focused on the action, as it is rather involved and complicated and would probably be utterly boring to read. However, I will highlight several aspects of what is considered to be the largest battle of the Revolutionary War. Also, Tavington will start to come into his own in these vignettes, acting more as the "Butcher" instead of the inexperienced staff officer I have so far portrayed him as. I would like to thank everyone who read the last installment and those that reviewed, **bubblymuggle4 **and **SpacePotato**. I hope you enjoy!

**Disclaimer: **I claim no ownership of the Patriot. However, I do own all OCs mentioned herein including General Julia Percy and Captain Thomas Ahearn.

**Jamaica Pass**

In the early morning of August the 27th, the road to Bedford was cluttered with long, unbending lines of red. Tavington's calves quivered and it was all he could do to keep atop his feet in the muddy, cold fields found at the end of the Jamaica Pass. Ahearn was beside him, apparently asleep where he stood, his chin against his chest. They had come to a halt at last.

Six hours of marching. Six achingly long hours of marching through the dense back country of Long Island and they had only walked nine miles. Tavington was shivering, shaking as the August mist swam about his ankles like water. Officers trotted by on horseback, bridles jingling, hooves beating a faint, stirring cadence on the narrow road.

Soldiers were sleeping, muddy hands covering heads and eyes. Weak starlight fell through the leaves of summer trees. The moon was behind a cloud.

They had marched all night they had. And in a precious few hours, when General Howe came and met them in the fields, they would be brought up before the Rebels and expected to fight.

Weary soldiers were whispering. Tavington did not much like the sound of them, those harried, lisping gasps that hovered below the fog like a dying wind.

"I'm dead," one Private sighed. He was lifting his legs, bending his knees and shaking away the stiffness that had settled there.

"In an hour you'll be," a Corporal answered, a man with a ratty, growl of a voice.

Tavington listened. His hands were cold, fingertips feeling like ice but his flesh was as dry as burnt wood.

Fear fell about him like rain, steely droplets of water that pierced skin and swamped one's heart.

But he was not frightened.

Strange, he thought, it was a strange notion that. Already, he had heard soldier's tales, rumors bred from poor, witless tongues that vowed this battle would be the grandest of the war…and the last. Tavington couldn't judge for himself, really, though he wasn't one to bow to the wisdom of mangy veterans.

And yet, there was something in the air this morn, something in the way the high grass swayed and shuddered. Something in the glassy, sleep-streaked eyes of his comrades. And something in the manner in which Percy sat her horse, her back arrow-straight, shoulders a smooth slope.

The tension was palpable and Tavington choked on it, his chest heavy. It would only be a short while before the drums sounded, their brisk, biting cry calling men to order, summoning them to the charge as the fifes shrieked encouragement. It would only be a short while before the lines were formed, before they slammed into the Rebels and sent their supposed brethren flying through the wet farmland watered with blood as opposed to fertile dew.

And Tavington, for all his inexperience, for all his boyish artlessness, was not frightened.

No, he was eager.

The knot in his chest loosened, blood shooting warmth to his fingertips. Yes, there something to soldiery after all.

Percy was riding past them now. She swayed in the saddle, hips shifting with the movement of her mount. Brazen whore, Tavington thought. She had the nerve to stare at her soldiers, had the impudence to mock them with her self-assured smile.

"It's a fine campaign we'll have then," she said addressing them at large and her voice was a raven's, a woeful herald's that lifted over the column of exhausted soldiers. "Let us see, my dears, let us see if old Yankee Doodle doesn't shake a bit in his boots before the morning does come."

Tavington felt heat swoop into his growling gut. A fine campaign indeed.

The order was given then, the columns reformed and the march resumed, leading them over dawn-kissed fields to war.

And with a snarl, Tavington elbowed the sleeping Ahearn awake.

* * *

**Author's Note: **General Clinton did indeed overtake the Jamaica Pass on the morning of August the 27th. The night march over the countryside was extremely tedious and the army covered only nine miles in six hours as mentioned above. However, the entire British army did not advance along the Jamaica Pass with Clinton. Howe, as noted, followed him at length and met up with him several hours later. General Grant and his Highlanders, along with Von Heister and his Hessians moved to outflank the American's right wing. But as Clinton and Percy are "buddies" in this fic, I decided to keep them paired up for the night march, so it may be assumed that wherever the former is, the latter most certainly will follow and Tavington, being a aide-de-camp, will always be at Percy's side.

And why is Tavington shivering and shaking with cold in August? According to Captain Sir James Murray, who was also with Clinton on the night march, "the night was colder too, than I remember to have felt it, so that by daybreak my stock of patience had begun to run very low."

Thanks so much for reading. Please take the time to review and share your thoughts with me.


	5. Route

**Author's Note: **Hello and welcome to the fifth vignette in the "How I Leave My Country" series. As always, I would like to thank those that read the last chapter and especially **bubblymuggle4** for reviewing. I hope you enjoy!

**Disclaimer: **I claim no ownership of the Patriot. However, I do own all OCs mentioned herein including General Julia Percy and Major Beatrice Covenly.

**Warning: **This vignette includes some vivid descriptions of a battle and as it is told from Tavington's point of view, expect some graphic details.

**Route**

_August 27, 1776 The Gowanus Road, Brooklyn Heights, New York_

Euphoria. Tavington was drowning in it. They were running, racing on the Rebels' heels, stopping, reloading. Fire. The sound of musketry sliced through the steamy air and spat rotten smoke into blinded eyes.

Over, it was all over.

The war was won this day.

And Tavington was with them, with a detachment of grenadiers that Percy was driving along after the Rebels. The enemy's center had withdrawn and collapsed under the weight of undimmed British glory. The last of the Yankees were retreating helter-skelter down the road, struggling to regain their camp before the end of it all.

But Percy would not let them get far. No, she was pressing them, teasing them, mocking them with muskets and the keen edge of the bayonet.

The line was paused now, standing in the road as a handful of gaunt Rebels turned and fired. Tavington smiled, relished in their panic and beside him Percy was laughing to herself, crying for the grenadiers to harry them, to drive them back up the hill where they would be trapped and finished.

And Tavington had his sword in hand, bloodied, his fingers twitching on the sweat-soaked hilt.

It was over. The war was won.

Strange, he felt almost disappointed.

The men were straining and he saw the exertion on their faces, skin pulled taut, jaws set and mouths snarling. Discipline disintegrated. The officers could not hold them back.

With a wild, shrill shriek, the carefully crafted column shattered and soldiers went pounding up the hill.

Tavington followed, felt the ground shake and shudder beneath his boots, felt the dizzying rush of blood to his head as he plunged into the last of the Rebel resistance.

Red. Red and brown. Stalks of dried, crimson-drenched grass stuck to his skin. Bodies. Men were falling, screaming, clutching spilt skulls and broken limbs.

Panic infected the ranks and the wretched colonials retreated, hollering. Hands were thrown up in the air, gun abandoned. They fled.

And there was no control. None, save for the inherent madness brought on by butchery. Tavington was crushed by a wave of heathenish impulsion. Arm arched, wrist steadied, he thrust his blade into the gut of a stumbling soldier, drawing out his sword just as the sticky entrails poured out over his hand.

Percy galloped straight into the crumbling line of Rebels and her horse was a weapon. Men were trampled beneath iron hooves. The General herself hacked off hands and severed flailing limbs, her hair matted, messy, crawling from beneath her soiled wig. Pistols were discharged into breasts, her proper English riding spurs smashed into already bruised faces. She tried to marshal her grenadiers into order but she herself was frenzied, teeth barred like Romulus' she-wolf.

And laughing. She was laughing all the while.

It was the most grievous horror Tavington had ever beheld.

"Julia!" The cry carried over the gunfire. "Julia!"

Major Covenly was coming up the road, riding up behind them on her foam-flecked horse, falling, shaking, shouting.

Percy turned.

"Julia!" Covenly screamed and she was unrecognizable to Tavington, her face tinged with yellow and blank with fear. "Julia, it's Howe, he's called us back. Howe, he's called you. We're not to press the Rebels. Fall back, he says. Pull back!"

Tavington saw Percy's eyes widen, saw the sheer fury that washed her lips white and made her feral. And he too was at loss, dumbfounded. Why should Howe call them back? Why should they not finish it?

The Rebels fired, their rustic guns crackling and screeching. Percy had her sword shot from her hand.

* * *

**Author's Note: **The action described in this chapter is accordingly taken from history and Percy has actually taken the place of another officer, Major General John Vaughan. The American's center at Long Island was defeated by eleven am and some of the colonial forces were fleeing along the Gowanus Road. General Vaughan, under General Clinton's orders, was chasing them up a hill to complete the route when Howe unexpectedly called his troops back. Apparently, Vaughan "stormed with rage" when he was recalled and was forced to withdraw whilst being fired on from Fort Putnam. His predicament seemed to fit Percy's character perfectly and so therefore, she has usurped his share of the action at in this vignette.

"Teeth barred like Romulus' she-wolf" is a reference to Roman mythology. It is said that Remus and Romulus, the twin sons of Rhea Silvia and the god of war, Mars, were thrown into the Tiber River and raised in the wild by a female wolf. Years later, Romulus murdered his brother and founded the city of Rome. This story is often referenced in relation to the brutality of ancient Rome and its "bloody" birth.

Thanks so much for reading. Please take the time to review and share your thoughts with me.


	6. Victory

**Author's Note: **This will be the last of the "Battle of Long Island" drabbles. Installments will be chapter-length hereafter. I'd like to thank everyone who has read this fic so far and **bubblymuggle4** who reviewed. I hope you enjoy.

**Disclaimer: **I claim no ownership of the Patriot. However, I do own all OCs mentioned herein including Major Beatrice Covenly and General Julia Percy.

**Victory**

_August 27, 1776 Brooklyn Heights_

General Percy returned from the action at Brooklyn Heights with exactly eight fingers and three buttons missing from her topcoat. She was bleeding all over her horse by the time Tavington got to her and lifted her down where she swooned at his feet.

No litter could be spared to help Her Madamship into the surgeon's field hospital and so Tavington was aided by a burly man named Bordon, who lent him his jacket and strong arms to assist Percy within.

Tavington would have retched at the smells and sights that infused the shabby tent, were he not distracted by the flashing needle in the surgeon's filthy hand and the burning brand in the other. Percy did not protest much when the thread was drawn through her spilt flesh, though she did cry out when the bone saw removed the last of her ring finger.

"I'm going to murder Howe," she said after they had taken her from the blood-smeared table and laid her on a cot.

Covenly was there then. She elbowed past the speechless Tavington who could only think of the melee, the last strains of which were unfolding just a short mile away. The Rebels had withdrawn to their camp while Howe ordered his soldiers to entrench, to dig in and wait for the surrender even though they should have crushed the enemy that day.

As to why, no one knew.

Tavington slipped away from the prone Percy. His legs were numb. The weight of his torso sat atop them like a heavy stone. His tongue tasted of powder, ripped from cartridges and poured into the pan of his pistol. And the weapon was in his hand still, a faded thing, warm, bearing a ball within its steel heart. Tavington's aching fingers wrapped around the butt.

Horrors, he had seen horrors this day.

He had seen the gore, the men squirming on the burnt grass, smothered by gun smoke as their entrails tumbled out of their ruptured bellies.

But he had seen, yes, he had seen the confident control of officers like Percy, the collected glory of the British force and the sheer courage conjured during the bayonet charges.

And he had seen the Rebels retreat.

Some semblance of his battlefield bravado shot strength into his limbs and Tavington straightened, an unusual smile cutting across his curt lips.

Victory. Ah, it was an elixir, an opiate. And his dry mouth yearned for it yet.

Covenly's coos distracted him now, tore his thoughts away from war. She was leaning over the fainting Percy who still moaned over her mutilated hand. "Howe expects them to surrender before the night is out," she promised her general. "Do not fuss, madam. Do not fuss. All is well. Victory, madam, we have victory."

The spell descended over Tavington once more. Victory, yes, _triumph_.

But Percy would not be placated. "Captain Ahearn?" she muttered. "The dumb dog, where has he run off to now?"

Covenly recoiled and fell against Tavington. They stared at each other.

With the first volley he had fallen, knees buckled, head pressed to a laboring breast. And he had died, died amongst the salty grass that lined Long Island's fields.

Covenly begged Tavington with her eyes, pleaded and implored. But he would not speak.

Neither of them wished to tell Percy that Ahearn was dead.

* * *

**Author's Note:** After trapping the Americans at their fortifications at Brooklyn Heights, General Howe refused to advance further as mentioned in this installment. Instead, he dug in and waited, ignoring the pleas of his officers. Supposedly, he wished to avoid another Bunker Hill, but after two days of rain and bad weather, Washington escaped across the river to Manhattan under the cover of fog on the night of August 29th. 

Thanks so very much for reading. Please take the time t review and share your thoughts with me. Feedback, whether positive, negative or neutral is always encouraging to a writer and I would love to hear your opinions. Enjoy the holidays!


	7. New York

**Author's Note: **This installment is sort of a slow resolution of all the action at Long Island that dominated the last three vignettes. There is a lot of background information here, so I'm afraid it might not be a terribly exciting read, but several key events do take place, including the introduction of two new, important characters. The next chapter might be a little late due to the hectic holiday, so I do apologize for any delay. As always, I would like to thank everyone who read the last installment along with **bubblymuggle4** and **MonaLisa23 **for reviewing. I hope you enjoy.

**Disclaimer: **I claim no ownership of the Patriot, but I do own all OCs mentioned herein including Major General Julia Percy, Doctor Harriet Benton and Major Beatrice Covenly.

**New York**

_December, 1776 New York City_

Tavington stepped out onto the stairs of Percy's current residence, a well-appointed house that stood on the west side of Broadway above Fort George. Her Madamship had cast him out rather hastily that afternoon citing his tendency to "vex" her. "Vexed" was now her very favorite word and she used it often to refer to the state of the army, the escape of the Rebels after the action at Long Island and her own severely mutilated hand. Major Covenly likewise was "vexed" and just that morning she had pulled Tavington aside in the corridor, whispering that their General was descending into one of her fretful depressions and it would be best to keep her quiet.

"If she is upset," Covenly mumbled knowingly, "she might disturb her mind and then it's naught but a month of hell for the two of us. Julia is always worse in the winters. She misses the summer campaigns."

Tavington had to agree with Her Madamship there. He too missed the swift, relentless pursuit, the cornering and capturing of the enemy, the sight of the Rebels fleeing, ratty coattails swinging, in front of the British guns. But things had settled now with both armies in winter camp. Howe had taken Manhattan for himself, leaving Washington to freeze in Pennsylvania.

Tavington frowned. A pang of disappointment stuck in his breast like a dart. After their initial success at Long Island, Howe had let the Rebels slip through his hands, engaging them haphazardly at Harlem Heights in September and White Plains in late October. Of course, both Fort Washington and Fort Lee had been captured, but the colonial army lived on.

It was a shame, a bitter shame and Percy lamented the loss like a bereft lover, moping about their commandeered house gloomier than a ghost. She did not seize the pleasures found in New York City and while her fellows gallivanted about the town, she sulked.

Tavington clapped his bare hands together. The December air felt sharp, unfriendly and his nose was numb. Their house, a cozy place to quarter in, crowned a small hill, laying most of Manhattan at his feet, though he did not admire the view.

Shrunken buildings hugged the coastline and charred outlines of burned hovels added to the city's eerie atmosphere. In September, a fire had ravaged most of the west side. The Rebels of course had pinned the blame on the British. Tavington, however, was certain that the Yankees had something to do with the blaze, being hell-sent demons themselves.

Still some officers swore that New York was a little London, though Tavington tended to disagree. They had coffee houses and concerts and even an amateur theater in the works, but the place was too damned provincial.

Tavington slipped his chilled hands into his pockets and watched the sky. It was grey, moody with thick clouds that threatened snow. And he felt more dead than alive.

A sudden grimace shaped his lips. Best not think about death now, no. Ahearn was dead, though neither Percy nor himself had made much of it. In fact, Tavington was rather pleased in a morbid sort of way. Ahearn had passed on, leaving Covenly and him alone on Percy's staff.

The opportunity for advancement was priceless.

Tavington rolled his shoulders. Yes, Her Madamship was warming up to him now, slowly and perhaps she would make him a brevet Major before the end of the next campaign. After all, he had already been rewarded a captaincy.

A stagecoach rattled down the street, stopping at the corner with horses snorting, shaking manes and tails and spraying bits of wet snow about the frozen ground. Tavington glanced once at the vehicle and the driver who hopped down from his seat to help a passenger with luggage. Several greatcoat-wearing gentlemen emerged, bundled their bags into their burly arms and went on their way, walking stiff-legged down the lane. The last to appear was a British officer, a lieutenant who had a proud bearing and an undeniably sprightly way of strolling.

Tavington raised a brow and then turned away.

The harbor was crowded with ice and he watched the frosty shards bob along the waves, smashing against the moldy hulls of the ships. Tavington wondered how Clinton fared on his expedition to Rhode Island. Howe had sent his second north to Newport with six thousand men to occupy the city. Percy had raised the usual fuss when she learned of her own exclusion from the tour, though her protests were soon silenced by a cough that had kept her bed-ridden for a week. And her wounded hand pained her, so she lamented. The doctors suspected the onset of rheumatism and all her thoughts of glory by Clinton's side were hitherto suspended, leaving her wretched in New York.

Tavington fancied that General Howe was almost happy for her unexpected illness, as he had a hard enough time prying Clinton and Percy apart these days. It was strange, really, the way the two went about, joined at the hip, but sullen, snappish and eternally surly. Clinton himself had a reputation for quarreling with his comrades and Percy was near impossible to work with. But they complimented each other, promoting their positions and snarling at any opposition. And conspiring, yes, they were always conspiring.

Rumor said that Howe disliked their pairing, but he feigned indifference. To combat Clinton and Percy's ungainly alliance, he had promoted Lieutenant Colonel Margaret Havens to full Colonel and kept the Irish attack dog close by. There was the makings of a good rivalry between Havens and Percy, both being women of similar disposition and talent. Tavington expected them to have a good row any day now. But Percy fell ill first and she languished away with a bottle of laudanum for comfort.

A wind stirred along the streets. The stagecoach pulled away, jolting and rumbling and jumping along the cobblestones. The lithe, graceful officer hurried up the road, a small leather traveling bag in one hand, while his bent arm supported a stack of books and a thin sketch pad.

Whistling, the man was whistling and Tavington cringed, the sound shrill in his ears. He sneered, stared at the officer and gave him a haughty look as he passed by the house. And to his surprise, the lieutenant stared back.

"Hullo," he chirped, halting by the front steps, a polite smile lifting his lips. "Is this Her Madamship's residence?"

Tavington did not respond for a long moment and he instead took the man's measure. An fine-featured lad he was, possessing two brown eyes, an olive complexion and an air of keen charm. His dark hair had been tied back in a neat queue, one stray lock falling over his boyish, clear forehead.

Tavington frowned. What a fop.

He nodded.

"Wonderful!" The lieutenant adjusted his books, fumbled for a minute and then moved closer to the stairs. "Thought I'd have to go trudging through this stinking city to find her. Is she about?"

Tavington rolled his tongue along his teeth. Percy was about all right, resting inside with Doctor Benton in attendance. She certainly could not conduct business and Tavington himself would have to deal with the dandy. Well, perhaps not.

"No." His breath fogged the air.

The lieutenant emitted a little mew of disappointment. "Oh. Where is she?"

Tavington shifted, his hand perched on his hip. A lie would suffice. "Mr. Robert Murray's mansion in Inclenberg. He's hosting a party of some sort, I believe. Percy took a ride up there this afternoon."

"Hmm." The lieutenant chewed on his little lips, pouting, his round chin jutting out. "Do you know when she'll be back?"

Tavington shrugged.

The lieutenant shifted his books once more. "Ah well. I do hope she enjoys herself, dear Julia. She deserves a bit of merry-making."

Tavington snorted. He felt decidedly uncomfortable around the young man. After all, it was not every gent who dared to address Her Madamship so informally. Clinton alone retained _that _privilege.

The lieutenant turned to go, but stopped a yard away, his shoulders rising with a sigh. "Am I right in assuming, sir, that you are a member of her military family?"

Tavington hesitated, wondering how he might answer safely and avoid getting caught in his lie. Ah, what the hell.

He nodded.

The lieutenant's annoying smile widened. "Thought so. Things haven't changed at all." A gloved finger touched the brim of his hat. "Good day then."

Tavington's eyebrows darted upwards. Wretch, damned wretch. He was glad when the lieutenant turned the corner, pausing only once to kick the slush from his boots before he trudged on.

The wind rose, sounding like a insistent hiss as it fingered the bare branches of the tree on the other side of the house. Tavington spat onto the ground.

The lieutenant was right after all, by God, the city stunk. When the Rebels had fled they left dozens of scattered trenches, now filled with stagnant water and filth. And of course, the lingering smell of smoke from the fire did little to alleviate the olfactory assault. Tavington shook his head and ducked back inside the house.

There was a flurry of feminine voices in the parlor, now converted into an office where Percy regularly met with her staff and conspired with Clinton.

"Little fool," a woman rasped. "You're lungs are festering, they are. I'll have to come again tomorrow. More bleeding, bah."

Tavington stopped and unconsciously shivered. That would be Doctor Harriet Benton, the regimental surgeon Percy so depended on. Why, he hadn't the faintest notion. Benton was more of butcher than Her Madamship and _she _wasn't even a soldier.

He glanced around the open door, the light from the bright fire flickering on the polished floor.

Doctor Benton sat on a footstool, one hand resting on her knees, the other latched over Percy's wrist.

"The pulse is fast," she mumbled.

"I am utterly vexed," Percy moaned, reclining on the vermillion chaise.

Major Covenly hovered about, her shadow blocking the narrow hearth. "If it's not one thing, it's another," she babbled. "Always a disaster of some sorts, always. And oh, it's never a moment's peace I'll have."

"Can you not quiet her?" Benton had her hands thrown up in the air now and she jumped off her stool, floundering about like a flapping goose.

Tavington announced his presence with a tiny cough.

Sharp eyes watched him, worried glances finding his face and freezing there.

Benton patted back her blond hair. "Oh, it's a visitor we have."

Tavington felt revolted. Of all the women he had encountered in the army, he hated Benton the most. It was rare for women to worm their way into the medical profession and the more sordid London journals were filled with stories of girls fighting to be admitted to the universities. Benton claimed she had been to school, though Tavington expected she was little more than a musty, miserable midwife, a woman who gave herself unwanted airs.

Quite like Percy.

It was one thing to have a few lassies in the regiments, one thing to have them on the battlefield but Tavington disliked the idea of women surgeons or female lawyers or ladies in Parliament for that matter.

His disgust must have shown on his face, for Benton bristled. She splayed her hands across the hips of her nankeen breeches, fingernails crusted with blood.

Percy lifted her pale head. "It's only my aide, Doctor, only Captain Tavington. Am I to continue with the laudanum now? Ah, it has made me so very, so very…" she broke off, yawning.

Benton, however, seemed distracted. "Your aide, hmm?" She shifted her square jaw. "Well, madam, things never change. No, they don't. Can't break an old horse, I say, although I'm sure you've tried. He's a handsome one, he is, this Tavington. Very nice."

And she returned to her work. The ratty cloth bag by her feet was thrust open and she fished about inside.

Tavington folded his hands behind his back as he entered the room. A dish of dried fruit had been set aside on cherry table and he popped a piece of stale apple into his mouth, chewing thoughtfully. Percy batted Benton away.

"Any word from Clinton?" she asked him hopefully.

Tavington shook his head. "None, madam."

Percy sighed, the sound like a death rattle, moist and thin. "I am vexed."

Benton cackled. "Little fool, little whore."

There was a moment of uneasy silence and Covenly extracted herself from the room. Tavington glanced over his red-coated shoulder, watching her slip away. The Major had the morals of a nun. And it was a shame, he thought, for she was bonny enough and many a soldier would gladly warm her bed.

Percy wasn't quite so particular, however. Often she ogled the spry, young junior officers during inspection and on one occasion, Tavington had stumbled across her abed with a lean lieutenant of the 23rd Royal Welch Fusiliers.

But her antics were no secret and with the army at winter quarters, amorous dalliances abounded. General Howe blatantly paraded about the city with his mistress, Mrs. Loring. And around the camp, common soldiers took their pleasure. Tavington himself knew of several pretty lassies of the regiments, poor girls who were more than happy to oblige him.

Yet surprisingly, Percy had been nothing more than polite to him and that was a rarity in itself, as he had often heard from his friends. She did not shy from sampling her aides and on former campaigns, she had caused numerous scandals.

However, she had almost no interest in him.

Benton gawked at him and Tavington turned around with a sour look.

"You've had this one on your staff for a while, haven't you?" she asked Percy who nodded asleep, her head on the cushioned arm of the chaise.

Tavington answered for her. "Since August, madam."

Benton smacked her dry lips together and cackled all the more. "This one tickle your fancy, General?"

Percy rubbed her blue eyes. "I mean to make a protégé out of him," she said in a soft voice, sounding more like a child than a woman past her prime. "He acquitted himself nicely at Long Island and afterwards, when we skirmished with Mr. Washington at Harlem Heights. Even Harry Clinton said so and he's a shy bitch, stingy with his praise."

"Oh aye." Benton winked knowingly. "I'm certain he's acquitted himself nicely, handsome young man such as he. And it's a shame, it is, that you speak of General Clinton in the same breath. Poor man never had a-"

The slap resounded in the small room and Tavington, for all his stoicism, jumped. Percy sat up, hand raised. Benton touched her cheek.

"Dammy," she muttered.

"It's a still tongue you'll keep in your head," Percy snapped, "or I'll have you in the gutter."

Benton didn't reply, but went groping around in her bag again, red-faced.

Tavington scratched his chin and dropped another piece of apple into his mouth. He'd seen Percy batter the servants about before and on Staten Island, when her mood turned black, she had even gone so far as to kick poor Ahearn in the shins. Her temper didn't shock Tavington though, not after he'd seen her order the grenadiers to cut through a patch of Rebels during the action at Brooklyn Heights.

Silence descended once more, ruptured only by the opening of the front door. There were quick footsteps in the hall and Tavington raised his eyes. Covenly breezed into the room and she was smiling, smiling like a smitten girl.

"Madam, there is someone here to see you," she breathed.

Tavington stared at her, utterly curious. Covenly was usually a stuffy woman. Who could possible have her all aflutter?

Into the room stepped an officer, the same sprightly lieutenant who had come by stagecoach. With a grand sweep of his arm, he removed his hat and bowed to a slack-jawed Percy.

"My dear General."

Percy's face flushed and with surprising energy, she leapt off the chaise. "Andre!"

* * *

**Author's Note: **A long installment means a long author's note at the end, but I will try to be as brief as I can. All the "back-story" Tavington reflects on in this chapter, the fall of Manhattan to the British, the burning of the city, the following action at Harlem Heights and White Plains, the capturing of Fort Washington and Fort Lee, Clinton's expedition to Rhode Island, is true along with the supposed stench of New York City when the British occupied it. Robert Murray and Mrs. Loring were also real people, the former being a prominent purveyor or luxury goods during the winter 1776-1777 season, the latter being General Howe's mistress (and noted distraction from campaigning). The house Percy is quartered in is likewise taken from history, as the British generals took the finest homes on the west side of Broadway above Fort George for their own.

Doctor Harriet Benton and Colonel Margaret Havens are, however, entirely fictional. Just as there were no female soldiers/officers in the 18th century British army, there were certainly no doctors. Benton's role, therefore, is entirely of my own making.

And finally, the "Andre" in this chapter is in fact the historical Lieutenant John Andre. Having been a prisoner of the Americans, he was exchanged in December 1776 and returned to New York where he met up with the army and was made a captain. He was then assigned to the staff of General Charles Grey whom he served with for several years. But as usual, I get ahead of myself. Andre will not be joining Grey's staff in this fic, but will remain with Percy as Tavington is in sore need of a rival.

Thanks so much for reading. Please take the time to review, I'd love to hear your thoughts. Have a wonderful, happy holiday!


	8. Octavian

**Author's Note: **Welcome to installment eight of the "How I Leave My Country" series. I would like to thank everyone who took the time to read the last vignette and those that reviewed, **bubblymuggle4 **and **MonaLisa23**. I hope you enjoy.

**Disclaimer: **I claim no ownership of the Patriot, however, I do own all OCs mentioned herein.

**Octavian **

It was snowing outside and Tavington glanced quickly out the window to avoid looking at Percy who was doubled over by Andre's chair.

"I can sleep easy now," she said, her eyes sparkling in a manner that strongly contrasted with her otherwise stern countenance. "Thank God it all turned out well." Her chin rested on Andre's shoulder, nestled against his new epaulettes.

Tavington growled into his palm and hot breath poured out over his curled fingers. Damn it all, damn it all to bloody hell. That wretch Andre had been made a Captain upon his return to the army…and immediately appointed to Percy's staff.

"You see," the man chortled now, "you see my dear Julia, I told you so. And you know I hate to say that, it sounds so very haughty of me. But I _was_ right."

"Always, my darling, always my dear, dear one," Percy exhaled. Her lips touched his cheek.

Tavington abruptly left the room.

Well, the great mystery was solved now. Percy's legendary preference for Andre was quite obvious when shoved directly under one's nose and the stench of it filled all of New York, competing with the stink pouring in from the streets.

As Tavington had rightly guessed, Andre was Percy's more regular lover.

And where did that put him exactly? Out of favor, out of mind, out of sight.

He crossed the corridor and slipped into the now empty office, unable to take the cooing and senseless palaver that erupted in the dining room. His dinner was left abandon.

Percy's staff had been taking supper together that evening when a messenger arrived and handed Her Madamship a letter-a dispatch from General Clinton informing her that he had taken Rhode Island on the eighth of December. After reading the note to herself and then aloud, Percy shot to her feet, agitated, excited, wild with relief. And to Tavington's utter shock, she promptly burst into tears, before collecting herself enough to scribble a note and order Covenly to send it at once to "brave Harry".

Andre had inherited the task of settling his general, speaking to her like a spooked horse and at last convincing her to come back to the table while she paced. And all the while, Tavington had watched the two of them bustle about like distracted chickens, feeling sick to the very pit of his stomach.

"I was worried, I was, I was," Percy had frantically mumbled, her napkin twisted in her left hand while the wounded right lay uselessly by her side. "I was worried…after…after Howe had advanced to New Brunswick with Cornwallis and then stopped at the Delaware. Harry had warned him, you know, told him to chase Washington until it was finished, but here he is, in Manhattan again. And the campaign has indeed ended on a high note. But oh, I was worried."

"And it was all for naught," Andre crooned, allowing her to touch his chin, his shoulders. Slowly, Percy calmed, but Tavington couldn't stand their company.

Percy mooned over Andre so that he was convinced that she was in love, calling the boy "my pet" and "my pretty" and all sorts of names that made him a prince as opposed to the plebian he really was.

It disgusted him, it did and in the cool shadows of the empty office, he tried to swallow away his anger.

He was no longer the favorite, no longer the jewel, no longer the protégé.

By God, he hated Andre.

A wryly smile worked Tavington's lips into a crescent. Hmm, so much for his career.

With a groan, he settled himself into a chair and watched the snow fall. The world was deceptively peaceful. All things were quite silent in the dining room now and Tavington was glad for it. After a time, a chair scraped against the floor and boots paraded up the stairs, stopping at the top and wheeling around the corner down the hall. He heard footsteps above his head and looked up. Percy was in her room. Or perhaps it was Andre. Hmm, at least it wasn't both of them.

The office door creaked closed.

Tavington sat up straight in his chair and caught sight of a shadow. Andre stepped into the light of the low fire, two wine glasses in hand.

Tavington glanced at him, immediately suspicious. "Trying to win me over, Captain?" he asked, an amused edge to his tone.

Andre grinned and handed him the glass. "Oh, I would never do that, William." He sat on the settee, crossed his legs and laid a hand on his ankle.

Tavington stared at him. A sneer touched his lips and narrowed his face. "Captain Tavington will do just fine."

"Keeping your distance?" Andre chuckled. He sipped his wine delicately.

Tavington, feeling utterly repulsed, set his glass to the side.

"So you're Percy's concubine?" he queried.

Andre cringed and threw him a sour look.

"You are quite direct, I gather," he simpered. "I daresay you walked a fine line with Julia for a time. She's a tricky one. I once saw her dismiss an aide after only an hour on her staff because of he had a sharp tongue. Obviously, she took a liking to you."

"She did," Tavington replied. He felt like boasting now and the fire warmed his body, bringing his anger to a simmer.

"You must hate me then."

"I do."

Andre sighed and licked the residual wine from his lips. "Are we to be enemies?"

"Yes." Tavington clenched his hands into fists on his thighs. His sneer turned to a garish smile. Andre shifted on the settee. Good, he wanted the man to be uncomfortable, wanted him to squirm about. Tavington certainly wouldn't give up his position on Percy's staff so easily. He wanted to be the apple of her eye. He wasn't a fool. A man of his measure needed a mentor if he was to rise in rank and Percy possessed the clout he coveted.

And he wouldn't pass up such an opportunity, no, not even if it meant skinning Andre alive.

"The notion wearies me," Andre said suddenly and with an officious air, he drained his glass. "I do hope you understand, _William_, that if we are to cross lances, I will most certainly emerge the victor."

Tavington's blood was now boiling and he looked to his own glass, the wine casting crimson tinged shadows onto the floor. "You are quite sure of yourself."

"I have reason to be." Andre tapped his fingers on the top of his boot.

"How so?" Tavington snapped. He didn't think he could stand Andre any longer, his nasally voice and practiced, false air of gentility. But then he almost feared that the man was truly as accomplished as Percy said, a real talent and his star would shine much brighter than Tavington's ever would.

Andre barred all his teeth in a smile. "I know Julia well, better than you and in this game, _William_, I have the upper hand."

Tavington cracked his knuckles. "Are you certain, Captain? Can you guess at what transpired during your absence? And why did Percy send you to St. John's in the first place? I thought you were her little prince."

Andre snorted. "We quarreled."

"Ah." Tavington felt the thrill of triumph swoop into his gut.

Andre, however, didn't seem put out by the matter.

"Lovers are wont to quarrel." He shrugged. "And I should say I benefited from the affair. You must try to see the matter from a different perspective, friend. Think of Julia's devastation when she learned of my capture when St. John's fell. Think of her guilt as she worried after her dear John, who was now lost to Rebels, hidden away in some provincial backwoods until God knew when. She blamed herself, I'm sure. Julia always will. You see, it's not often Her Madamship makes mistakes, but when she does, there is a profit to be seized by those who have a mind to advance."

"Oh you are cunning," Tavington growled. "A true snake in the grass."

"Not completely." Andre was now picking at the sleeve of his coat, flicking an imagined piece of dust in his counterpart's direction. "It's all a matter of point of view, really. And you don't know Julia quite so well as you should."

Tavington parried Andre's verbal blow with one of his own. "Or perhaps you fear I do?"

A fine brow danced up on the man's smooth forehead. "Well, I am certain you know that Julia was trained in Germany along with Clinton. They became friends then and have been ever since. And I suppose you know that her spirits are suicidal in the winter and that she has a strange fear of dining in public. And you surely have heard the tales of her childhood in Scotland."

"Scotland?" Tavington barked. Percy was no Scot.

Andre nodded. "Born in York she was, but her mother was, hmm, of a disagreeable temperament and her sire was no better. An Aunt Aurelia or some such woman made a ward of Julia and kept her on a Scottish estate. You see, that's where she acquired her wretched accent, that rough, rude manner of speech she has." He pulled a face.

Tavington suppressed a sigh. Indeed, Percy had an odd way of talking, throwing in the careless "aye" every now and then whilst rolling her "r's" and placing direct emphasis on her "u's".

Andre cleared his throat briskly. "And…and you must know of her daughter, Amelia, whom she loves but due to a noticeable lack of maternal skill, was never a good mother to."

Tavington perked up when he heard mention of Amelia, nodding like a pleased cat. "Of course I know of Amelia. She wrote to her mother in August, wanted a new riding habit for herself."

Andre raised his other brow.

"I read her correspondence," Tavington replied smoothly.

"And you dare to call me a snake in the grass," Andre said, his voice easy with no hint of malice.

Tavington wanted to snap back, but couldn't find cause to. Was Andre complimenting him? He couldn't be certain and in this situation, haste would merit nothing.

"What you must understand, William, is that Julia is like most of her sex, but unique in a most perplexing way." Andre rolled his shoulders back, his head tipping lazily to the side as he appraised Tavington like a young school boy. "She mistrusts everyone, men, women, humph, children and even herself on occasion. And she quarrels, yes, she squabbles likes a stray street cat. It's quite a quandary she's fashioned for herself then. If she mistrusts all and is in turn, hated, then she must be needed. Why else would anyone keep her company? Thankfully, she is an asset to the army (though sometimes a liability) and her martial skill is undoubtedly superior. Yet insecurity is her flaw and a dangerous one. Despite her suspicions she needs reassurance."

"Which you provide?" Tavington raised his chin.

Andre sighed again, stood and suddenly snatched up the other wine glass for himself. Tavington stared at him, half appalled, half impressed as the man drained it.

"I would never hurt Julia," Andre said in a husky voice. "I only do what's best, best for her and myself, that is."

"You are not entirely convincing," Tavington replied.

"And you couldn't give a damn, really."

Tavington set his jaw and let his teeth click together. Andre made to hand him the empty glass but was saucily refused. With a roll of the eyes, he instead seated himself once more and tapped his boots heels on the floor. Lazy, little snowflakes drifted past the window behind him and the grey light from a winter sky rested on Andre's shoulders, coloring his skin silver.

"Do you remember what they taught us in school, William? By God, it was so very long ago. I had a rickety old preacher for a tutor, half-deaf, blind, but he knew his history well enough, knew of Boadicea and her hordes."

Tavington, now livid, barely managed to contain a feral snarl. "Boadicea? I've had enough of Boadicea and her hordes."

"You shouldn't let _them _hear you say that." And with a jerk of his head, Andre indicated the fair sex. "It was her uprising that saved _them_, her sin that has us in such perilous world today. It's not so on the Continent, you know. I went to Germany as a young officer. It's different in that land and they call us Britain's barbarians to allow our women on the battlefield. That is why I was quite impressed to learn that Julia received her training there, hmm, my sly Julia. But as it is, we Briton's are unique, you see, blessedly unique."

"Not for long." Tavington stood and strode over to the window, stared at the charred buildings now dusted with snow. It was a morbid sight. "Percy fears that she will be recalled."

"Not after Long Island."

"It's over for their sex," he insisted.

Andre sighed. "Not while every mother and her daughter still raises a toast to Boadicea." He rose and came to stand by Tavington's elbow. The latter grimaced, leaning his shoulder upon the cold, fogged window with a grunt.

"Don't be so romantic," he growled. "Give it another five years, ten perhaps and then the House will move against women and it'll be finished and even Percy's tantrums won't stop them."

Andre laughed merrily, too merrily for Tavington's liking and he was convinced the man was a wolf decked in a sheep's wool. "There is another thing you must learn of women, William. They have incredibly keen memories. It's amazing, truly, the things they hold onto. You can be certain, just as certain as I am standing here in my regimentals, that they will _not _let the matter rest. As long as the fair sex revels in tales of Boadicea's glory, as long as they believe they are following in her footsteps, continuing the tradition she started, they won't let the silly House of Commons push them about."

"So you say," Tavington replied hotly, no longer unable to keep the venom from his voice.

Andre laughed all the more. "Don't be tiresome, William. Come now, let us be friends. You have much to learn of this army business and I'd be glad to teach you. What for it, eh?" He extended his hand.

Tavington sucked in his breath and glanced at Andre evenly. Hmm, best start things off right and proper. "No, _John_," he said, speaking slowly as if to a simpleton. "I have little inclination to be friends with the likes of you and less reason."

Crisply, he turned and sallied forth from the room, but could not escape Andre's chuckles.

"Oh really," the man drawled. "War it is then! But let us see, shall we, who turns out to be Caesar. Or Pompey, if you like. As for me, I'll be neither, no, I'd rather be Octavian. Ha ha!"

* * *

**Author's Note: **The title of this vignette, "Octavian" comes from classical Roman history. Octavian was both the nephew and heir of Gaius Julius Caesar. Upon his uncle's death, he stepped into Roman public life and fought a long civil war with his rival, Mark Antony. After defeating Antony and his lover, Cleopatra, at the battle of Actium in 31 B.C., Octavian became the first Roman Emperor titled "the exalted" or Augustus. Octavian was also known as a keenly intelligent boy and came to power at a considerably young age. Therefore, Andre dubbing himself "Octavian" is rather presumptuous.

Pompey, also cited in this chapter, was Julius Caesar's rival during the fall of the Roman Republic. They too fought a long civil war with Caesar emerging as the victor. Percy's Aunt Aurelia is likewise taken from classical history, Aurelia having been the name of Caesar's mother. "Julia", Percy's first name is also a nod in the direction of "Julius" Caesar, although I've always thought of Percy as more of a Mark Antony.

The mention of Boadicea in this chapter is mostly fictional. Britons of the 18th century were not quite as aware of the Iceni queen as their Victorian counterparts were. However, in this alternate history, she plays a very significant role, having contributed to the current standing of women in the army.

General Clinton was indeed trained in Germany, which caused many of his fellow officers to dismiss his battle plans as "German jargon". His earlier relationship with Percy in Germany is of my own making.

I have also taken slight liberties with Captain Andre's character in this story. He was generally regarded as a genteel, talented, intelligent man although some of his enemies accused him of being a sycophant. His romantic relationship with Percy is also fictional, yet he was known to be a flirt and charmed many women. His rickety old preacher tutor along with his time spent in Germany as a young officer are also true facts from his early life.

Clinton did indeed capture Rhode Island on December 8th. Percy's mention of Howe advancing to New Brunswick on December 1st is also true. Washington, however, crossed the Delaware and on December 8th, Howe more or less decided to stop for the winter. He set up several command centers across the state, spreading his troops out and then retiring to New York on the 15th. However, it may be assumed that Percy did not join him on this expedition and rather stayed in Manhattan due to her illness.

Thanks so much for taking the time to read. Please review and share your thoughts me with. Have a happy New Year!


	9. Inheritance

**Author's Note: **This installment is shorter than the previous two and somewhat unusual. I say unusual because the events that occur are a bit random, even though they are in fact necessary to the plot. Either way, I found this vignette to be quite tricky to write and I do apologize if it is less than exciting. I'd like to thank everyone who read last chapter and **bubblymuggle**, who took the time to review. I hope you enjoy.

**Disclaimer: **I claim no ownership of the Patriot, however, I do own all OCs mentioned herein including Major General Julia Percy and her daughter, Amelia.

**Inheritance**

On Christmas Eve, General Percy inexplicably decided to attend to her correspondence. Tavington himself wasn't thrilled with the chore, as Her Madamship asked that he sit in her bed chamber and pen replies. And oh, she was horrid at dictation. And oh, the whole task was torment.

Well, at least Andre had gone out for the afternoon.

Percy herself was at the point of dozing on her bed and Tavington tapped his quill loudly against the inkwell.

She jolted awake.

"Read, ah, read that back to me again, Captain," she yawned, one hand raised, fingers flicking idly about.

Tavington swallowed a sigh and held up a sheaf of paper. "To your daughter Amelia, madam, you write, 'Horrid child, how wretched of you not to inquire after your mother's health. I should box your ears for it. What manners have you learned? You shame me, oh you shame me.' It ends there, madam, how shall I proceed?"

Percy picked at her teeth. "Tell her that she's not to spend a single penny more. That riding habit of hers was costly, _too _costly. I'm already bankrupt. By God, Captain, never have children. Brats, they are all brats. Vermin."

"Yes, madam." Tavington leaned back in his stiff chair and uncrossed his legs. Dead branches scraped against the frosty windowpane. He shivered. Percy kept the fire low in her room and there was hardly any light to see by. His eyes felt as though they had been washed with sand.

If he had any sense, he would have seized this opportunity for his benefit. Percy was alone, lounging in her shirtsleeves and breeches. Tavington could spend a fair hour pouring honey into her ear. Why, he could even tell her that he had seen Andre in the stable yard with one of the common soldier lasses. Hmm, that would vex her well enough.

Tavington smiled and set aside his inkwell.

"Madam," he began, but Percy suddenly sat up.

"I think I hate my daughter," she said, hands tossed over her ankles.

Tavington stared at her and was surprised when she blushed.

"Oh, don't look at me so, Captain. I could have done worse. There are mothers that kill their children, cruel mothers that strangle their own dear babes." She snorted and twined a strand of yellow hair about her finger. "Do you think I'm a villain, Captain?"

Tavington inhaled sharply. For some reason, he doubted sycophancy would suffice on this occasion but he was more shocked by Percy's sudden honesty. Here she sat, undone, undressed, vulnerable. He could certainly take advantage of her, strictly for his career's sake, of course. Pleasure had nothing to do with it.

After all, Andre made it look so easy.

"Madam," he tried again.

But she had wrapped her arms around her knees now, looking sour, soft. "What was your mother like?"

He chewed over the question before answering. "Motherly," he replied at length.

"Humph, that's rather vague of you."

Tavington smiled wryly. He loved his mother, but Percy need not know that. "Your mother, madam?" he asked, "what was she like?"

Percy sneered. "A fat bitch. I hate her too, hate her so very much.. Aye, at least I'm not fat as well." She picked at the taut flesh stretching over her bony wrist. "Thank God my Aunt raised me as a Spartan."

"Your Aunt, madam?"

Percy's eyes darkened. "Never mind, Tavington. I'll finish the letter to my daughter later. What else is there for me?" She rolled onto her side. The feather mattress dipped down.

Tavington sniffed loudly and stood, kicking his chair closer to the dusty hearth. Another chance lost. He had her, he did, let her get all sentimental and weepy looking. But the ice had returned, her countenance firm and she was a hard as a horse's hoof again. A log snapped, shriveled by the embers and tiny flames. He walked over to the maple wood desk by the window and picked through the packet.

"A letter from a Mr. Albert Manson."

Percy made some indistinct noise.

Tavington set the note aside and continued his search. "Well, there is-"

His hand paused, freezing over a black-edged letter.

Death.

The stench permeated the room, infused the ink and parchment.

He glanced at Percy's back. "Madam."

"What, Captain?" she sounded half-asleep again.

Tavington gingerly picked up the letter and read the name.

"A letter here," he replied, "from Hester Pitt, the Right Honorable Countess of Chatham."

"Oh?"

"It's edged in black."

She rolled over onto her back. "Give it here. Now."

Tavington complied.

The seal was broken, the letter opened with a snarl as the parchment tore. Percy read it silently and then laid the note on her stomach, her eyes blank, staring at the canopy top of her bed.

Tavington wanted to say something yet his tongue stuck to his teeth and he was dumb.

Percy was shaking then, rising, standing atop the bed, her face a sheer sheet of ivory.

"God!" She reached out, put her arms over his shoulders and shook him fiercely. "Dear God, Captain!"

"Madam!" His hands slipped over hers and he tried to grab her waist, tried to hold her fast, but she was leaning against him. Her weight took them both to the floor and she sat unashamedly on his lap.

"My Aunt has died," she panted and the very wildness of her eyes was enough to terrify the stoniest soldier.

Tavington said nothing.

"My Aunt has died," she cried, "and left me all of her estate, twenty-five-thousand pounds, houses in Scotland and Kent. Dear God, Captain, I'm saved!"

And she kissed him just as Andre strolled into the bedroom.

* * *

**Author's Note: **Now, in light of that ending, I would just like to say that there will be absolutely NO Tavington/Percy pairing in this fic. The kiss was the result of Percy's utter excitement and nothing more. However, Tavington will be paired with another OC soon enough, see if you can guess who, hehe. 

Hester Pitt, the Right Honorable Countess of Chatham, was a real historical figure, the wife of William Pitt the Elder, Britain's Prime Minister from 1766-1768. She was also the mother to William Pitt the Younger, another famous British Prime Minister, who, as mentioned before, will be quite important in this story later on.

Thanks so much for reading. As always, any and all feedback is greatly appreciated, so please take the time to review.


	10. Roman

**Author's Note: **Well, here is another chapter-length vignette and it's a Christmas-themed one to boot. It's actually a bit depressing writing about Christmas after the holiday, but I think Tavington deserves a bit of holiday cheer after all he's been through in this story. As always, I would to thank everyone who took the time to read the last chapter and my two faithful reviewers, **bubblymuggle** and**MonaLisa23**. I hope you enjoy.

**Disclaimer: **I claim no ownership of the Patriot. However, I do own all OCs mentioned herein including Major General Julia Percy, Major Covenly and Doctor Benton.

**Roman**

Tavington sat on the stairs in corridor, feeling _thoroughly_ uncomfortable in his mock Roman jerkin and tunic. But the boots were well-made at least, not stained, not stiff like his riding boots, but supple, soft and a pleasant brown. And the helmet, yes, that wasn't too bad. A fancy thing it was, with a red feather crest and some ancient, outdated insignia embellished on each side. And it made him look significantly taller and therefore, quite imposing.

The house was aflutter with activity on Christmas afternoon, what with well-wishers ushering in and ushering out and Percy imbibing rather liberally, polishing off the bottle of Madeira Clinton had set aside for her as a gift. Pangs of homesickness were inherent but generally ignored and all of King George's army was intent on a little merry-making, indulging in old Anglo-Saxon habits that had never quite gone out of style. Tavington wasn't opposed to most of it and he found that he enjoyed some of it. Even Covenly had shyly handed him a book of Shakespearian verse that morning and Andre pretended to wish him the best of health with only a small sneer.

Percy herself was in a rare mood and she had suspended all menial tasks. Tavington was glad for the reprieve, his hand cramped from letter writing, his resolve unable to withstand another curt, careless order. And he was in sore need of rest.

But not all matters were put aside for the holiday….

A sound on the stairs jolted him into awareness and Tavington stood, his long red cloak brushing against his ankles. Covenly paused a step above him.

"Captain, sorry to keep you waiting," she said breathlessly. Her hair was about her shoulders and she looked decidedly feral.

Tavington smiled slightly. Well, that _was_ the point of a Boadicea Ball or so Corporal Bordon had told him. He had never been to a proper one before, had attended a mock May Day event as a boy where some of the girls had donned red wigs and robes and the boys pretended to be Caesar's cohorts. Yet this affair was grander, a pageant, or so Andre put it, an ode to an ideal that was now quickly decaying.

But Covenly certainly looked the part today and something of nostalgic patriotism stirred within Tavington. She was dressed in a loose, colorful gown, her face painted with ridiculous stripes of blue. A rough rope belt circled her waist and a rude, old-fashioned sword dangled from it.

"Well," she sighed, staring at him with a polite yet nervous smile. "You certainly look the part. One of Caesar's men, I should say. Red does suit."

Tavington leaned lazily against the wall. "I do hope so," he replied and let the hem of his cloak fall away, revealing his dark leather vambraces and muscular forearms. Covenly appeared not to notice his charms and Tavington curbed his flirtation. Hmm, if she paid no attention to him, then Percy wouldn't and what a damned shame that would be.

His lips were still stinging from her kiss, although he did realize her enthusiasm was due more to her unexpected inheritance as opposed to his seductive skills. Yet perhaps, just perhaps he had opened a door with her, not that he was eager to become her lover. She wasn't his type, really, too scrawny, too squirrelly and her certain _shrill_ resonance was grating. But he would be a fool indeed to bypass such a chance. And should he, fierce man that he was, simply let his career wither and die because of that French bastard, Andre, that olive-skinned, no good snake?

No. No, not at all.

He was desperate and this game wasn't played on the battlefield, wasn't governed by musketry and cannon and martial skill. This was about trickery. This was about wit. This was about unabashed revenge.

His determination must have shown on his face, for Covenly took a sheepish step back.

"My, Captain," she gasped, "are you well? Your cheeks are so terribly flushed. Oh, I do hope you haven't been drinking. Please, Captain, don't drink. I know, I know. I am asking much of you, but _someone _must keep an eye on General Percy tonight and it certainly won't be that useless Andre."

Tavington's nostril's quivered and like an eager stallion, he sensed an opening. "Andre, madam?" he asked mildly.

Covenly set her jaw and seemed to realize her mistake. "Never mind that, Captain. I shall wait in the coach. Do excuse me." And she left, retreated down the hall and outside into the biting cold. Tavington dropped back down onto the bottom step and cradled his chin in his palm.

Well, there was something, wasn't it? Covenly didn't like Andre. What had changed her opinion of him and why?

He chewed on his lip. If there was disguised dissonance on Percy's staff, he vowed to unmask it tonight.

The stairs sagged beneath the weight of boots once more and this time, Tavington did not rise. Instead, he let the man sidled around him and trip over his own two feet.

Andre cursed under his breath.

"Something wrong, sir?" Tavington asked lightly.

The Captain's eyes grew sharp as he stood in warm light of the wall sconces. "Not at all." His lips barely moved as he spoke.

Tavington smiled pleasantly. The smell of freshly picked holly and evergreen trickled through the house, the parlor mantle having been decked with dark green boughs and bright red berries by one of the more crafty servants. Andre placed his hands on his hips and paced. Tavington watched him out of the corner of his eye.

Hmm, the Roman gear did not suit him at all. Made him appear thin, lanky. The jerkin hung from his shoulders, the helmet rocking comically on his head.

Tavington stifled a chuckle behind his hand but Andre must have heard something, for his head snapped right around.

"Say something, Captain?" he asked, having dropped the whole "William" business some time ago.

Tavington sensed his paranoia. "I was thinking aloud," he said. "Musing, you know."

"About?" Andre's hands were clenched.

"That's private, I'm afraid."

Andre scoffed. "Fancy yourself a philosopher what with all this thinking?"

"No." Tavington shrugged. "A simple soldier like me? Never! But ah, you're too clever for soldiering, aren't you Andre? Too smart to play fair. Have to go around warming Her Madamship's bed sheets-"

Andre turned fully about now and in one, long stride, he was across the hall and leaning over Tavington. "I would advise you to curb your tongue."

Tavington grinned up at him. "Why? Because it's Christmas Day?"

Andre grimaced viciously. "Because you _ought_ to be smart and let this be."

Now Tavington stood and was happy when he dwarfed Andre. He actually felt a bit like a Roman, powerful, relentless, a dangerous man in his own right. "But you see, sir. I've let things be. It's General Percy, she's pushed the matter," he lied, "she was most insistent yester-"

Andre laughed suddenly. "I bet she was." And to Tavington's utter vexation, Andre looked relieved.

He bit his tongue and watched as the man composed himself, regaining his careful air of charm and ease.

Andre walked to the door and paused. "Don't you think of meddling with me, Captain," he said. "For I would so hate to see your reputation harmed."

Tavington said nothing, let the damned boy leave, the damned French boy. But he wasn't quite so angry now. Strange, he felt calm. Caesar had best watch himself, he decided, for Brutus was sharpening his knife.

He sensed that Andre was losing his footing, had been unhorsed, unmanned after witnessing Percy's sudden display of affection directed at his opponent. If only he knew. If only the poor bastard knew the truth of things. But ah, no matter, Tavington was gaining the higher ground now and what a foolish soldier he would be to abandon such a post.

A rustling, quickly followed by a curse heralded Percy's arrival on the stairs. She came down the steps one at a time, holding up the hem of her gown and looking even more uncomfortable than he.

"I don't mind the robes so much," she said, not glancing up, her eyes on her feet. "But it's this silly wig. Makes me look like a lion."

Without a thought, Tavington extended his arm. "Madam."

"Oh, thank you Johnny, I-" She had been expecting Andre, had closed her hand over his wrist and upon seeing Tavington, her face fell. "Captain." Her mouth dropped open.

Tavington helped her down the last step and surveyed her openly. She did look a little silly, he admitted to himself. Her costume was more opulent than Covenly's. The gown itself was an array of fantastically colored patches and Tavington even spotted swatches of brocade amongst the plain linen. The military tailor obviously hadn't tackled the task with much enthusiasm, or skill it seemed. Percy wore a similar patchwork cloak on her shoulders and the rope about her waist was painted gold. A single blue stripe spilt her face. And atop her head was perhaps the most bizarre addition to the ensemble. A wig covered her own blond hair, a wild, messy wig of tawny tresses that dripped tangled tendrils down to her waist. A circlet neatly crowned the mats.

"They…they say Boadicea had red hair," she mumbled, noticing his eyes on her and looking shockingly self-conscious. "And I should be honored to play the part. Only the highest ranking female officer in the army is awarded such a privilege."

She was trying desperately to smooth over the awkwardness. Tavington, however, sought to heighten it.

"Indeed, madam," He brought her lips to his hand, but Percy yanked her fingers away.

"Are you in your cups, Captain?" she asked incredulously.

Tavington suppressed a sigh. "No, madam." Ah well, he had all night to chip away at her stoniness.

Percy lifted her skirts once more and headed to the door, but something stopped her in the corridor and she froze, her arms falling to her sides.

"Captain?" her voice was small and Tavington felt himself smile.

"Yes, my dear madam."

Percy half-turned. "About yesterday afternoon, Captain, I have been meaning to," she paused and blushed, "I haven't really spoken to Andre about it yet."

A warm stone dropped into Tavington's chest, heating his heart. Yes, he was gaining ground indeed.

"And why is that, madam?" he asked gently, his tone soft, a purr. "Are you worried as to how he might react? After all, he does seem a bit hot-tempered."

Percy threw her head back and snorted. "Good God, no, Captain. I simply haven't gotten around to it yet. But here is where the trouble lies. My Aunt was a Baroness in her own right and the title was hereditary, you see. Do you think…do you think that I might inherit that also, Captain? Hester Pitt's letter wasn't specific. How should I go about it?"

The warm stone within Tavington's breast melted only to be replaced with shards of ice. "I have no notion, madam. Perhaps you _should_ ask Andre."

"Hmm, yes." Percy looked thoughtful as she left and Tavington was obliged to follow her, leaving the now empty house behind. Two carriages sat in the drive outside. The wind nipped at his thighs, covered only in thin cotton breeches that were for summer use but nonetheless matched his Roman attire. He looked down the road and saw muddy puddles littering the lane. Frost clung to the dead tree branches and cascaded down in thin, delicate looking icicles. There wasn't much snow though, no, it was more slush and the ground itself was frozen.

But in looking far off, in gazing over Manhattan and the harbor, he was stunned by a sudden stab of loneliness. Had he been in London, had he been home, he would have passed the night amidst reckless abandonment. Wine, women, song and all the merriment that went along with such pastimes. Yet for some reason, he found he yearned for simplicity and youthful memories pained him now. His mother, reading to him before the parlor hearth. His father, taking him out into the snowy fields to shoot rabbits or whatever birds they might find. The rosy-cheeked guests that would pile into the house for two weeks. The old and the young, all joined in carols and songs….

"Oh come now, Captain. It's bloody freezing! Get in, will you?"

That was Andre, his head sticking out the window of Her Madamship's commandeered coach. Tavington glared at him, but made his way slowly down the drive to the stately vehicle and the pair of plume-wearing carriage horses.

"Not this one," Andre crowed. "There." And he pointed to the second coach, a plainer conveyance that stood in the shadow of the other.

Covenly opened the door and beckoned to him. "You're with us, Captain Tavington. Oh do come along now."

Tavington tried to brush off the slight with a jerk of his shoulders, but Percy's obsession with Andre was becoming markedly more infuriating. And his Roman costume did little to relieve his fury, the leather creaking as he walked, reminding him that men had once been stronger and not subject to a shameless woman's will.

With a grunt, he climbed into the second coach and sat beside a shivering Covenly. A shadow, bundled up in the far corner, burst into a fit of laughter.

"Welcome, Captain. And merry Christmas."

Tavington blinked in disbelief as Doctor Benton leaned forward and patted his knee.

"What are you doing here?" he asked, his voice now noticeably bereft of respect.

Covenly clucked her tongue disapprovingly. Benton, however, smiled broadly.

"I was invited by Her Madamship, of course. We're old family friends. Old friends, indeed."

Tavington snorted. "Like hell you are."

"Captain, that will do!" Covenly's huffy chastisement silenced him, for in the end, he wanted a peaceful journey and couldn't stand another useless tongue lashing.

But Benton continued to chortle and her laughter rang out high and loud as the pair of coaches rolled down the drive. Tavington glanced quickly out the window and caught sight of Percy's bobbing conveyance and he grimaced imagining mighty Boadicea tucked amorously beside her lusty Roman.

* * *

**Author's Note: **The tradition of Boadicea's Ball is entirely fictional, although there were instances of masked pageants held by the British during the war, the Meschianza being such a festival, though I'll get to that later on. 

Andre was indeed French as Tavington says, though according to his brother officers, he acted completely British. Andre's mother was a French woman and his father a Swiss merchant from Geneva. However, Andre himself was born in London, a French Huguenot and he grew up in England. But despite his British upbringing, he spoke French fluently (along with German, Italian and perhaps a little Dutch) and his baptismal certificate was also in French.

According to the Roman historian, Dio Cassius, Boadicea had long red hair that came to her waist and wore a motley mantle of many colors.

Thanks so much for reading! Please take the time to review, I would love to hear from you. Have a great weekend!


	11. Boadicea's Ball

**Author's Note: **For some strange reason, this installment was exceedingly difficult to write. I suppose it's because I don't care for parties myself. Anyway, the next update shouldn't be too far behind and I do truly appreciate your patience. As always, I would like to thank everyone who took the time to read and those that reviewed, **bubblymuggle**, **MonaLisa23** and **AliBlack**. I hope you enjoy!

**Disclaimer: **I claim no ownership of the Patriot. However, I do own all OCs mentioned herein including Major General Julia Percy, Major Covenly and Doctor Benton.

**Boadicea's Ball**

The coach slid to a halt on a patch of ice outside Howe's residence. Both Tavington and Major Covenly were knocked about, Covenly falling to her knees on the muddy floor, forced to scramble back into her seat with an embarrassed groan. Benton smiled at Tavington over the Major's head and winked.

"Here at last." She clapped her hands together, her thin torso draped over the dark seat, face pressed to the fogged window. "Splendid. Ah, General Grey is here already. Not General Clinton though and that's a damn shame. Percy must be pining, yes, pining, poor lass. I think she misses-"

"Help me out, will you, Captain," Covenly said briskly and a look exchanged between her and Benton assured Tavington that neither was entirely pleased with the other's company. Tavington, on the other hand, loved to see them quarrel. For some strange reason, he found he delighted in dissonance and Percy's staff was full to overflowing when it came to conflict.

He waited until the driver jumped from his seat and opened the protesting door, it's hinges near frozen. Tavington then dutifully took Covenly's hand and guided her down to the road where she stood in a pool of color, her gown like an amber leaf adrift in the grey night. Benton followed them, her own attire more plain, a simple dress made of brown cloth that hung from her shoulders like a sack. She looked very mousy, Tavington decided and he turned his attention to the other coach. Andre was assisting Percy out and the company stood beneath the new moon, a sliver of ivory that penetrated the glassy, gossamer snow clouds that had wept ice all day and were now spent. The countryside was indeed picturesque, Tavington thought, and the wind, willfully strong, was refreshing. He inhaled deeply, tasting it on his tongue as he smiled. Thick fir trees marred the horizon and cast irregular shadows over the fields. From somewhere far off, a crow cried.

"A wretched journey," Percy panted. She had her skirts hitched up again, her ankles and shins hidden by boots. "Nothing but bumps and bruises. What is the matter with you, man?" She turned her wrath on the coach driver. "Can you not keep your team in line? I swear, you intended to hit every rut. The devil take you, the devil take you and this damned country-"

"Now, Julia." Andre, with his snake-charmer smile, was quick to quiet her. "You must not be so intemperate on Christmas day. Have a little cheer, if you will."

Covenly mumbled something indistinct under her breath and Benton cackled into Tavington's ear.

"Silly Andre," she whispered to him. "Fancies he has Her Madamship well-trained. Won't he be surprised then, won't he be shocked when General Clinton returns."

Tavington cocked a brow. "Are you nothing but utterly useless, madam?"

Her face soured, but the mirth did not leave her lively eyes. "Not in every way, sir."

Covenly clucked her tongue loudly.

"I'm allowed to be intemperate with Howe," Percy announced suddenly. "_You_ were not at Brooklyn Heights, my dear. _You_ cannot comprehend the inherent idiocy of our commander."

Andre was silenced.

"Well." Percy adjusted her gown with a great sigh. "Let's get this over with, shall we? I should rather be back home-ah, or better-across the Delaware finishing off Mr. Washington. Yes, that should make for a lovely Christmas and a grand present for His Majesty, eh? And yet here sits Howe, frolicking about Manhattan. It is quite enough to drive one to madness, I should say." She continued to ramble on as she headed up the drive, her cloak trailing behind, looking like a dusty rag in the dying light.

Tavington and Benton followed on her heels, both enjoying the prestige that walking in her wake brought. Other, junior officers stepped to the side while American guests, retaining their false airs, only moved just a little to let Percy pass by.

Howe's more permanent residence in New York was decked like the most opulent of dandies. Candles blinked in the windows, the drapes drawn back and Tavington detected the light sounds of the flute from out of the babble of boisterous voices. However, the elegance of the place was quite dwarfed when one considered the grandeur of London and even the Spartan Percy sniffed judgmentally upon entering the foyer.

Tavington lifted his eyes, craned his neck over the crowds and spotted the pretty parlor along with the handsome corridor where holly boughs lay like restive green arms over the staircase banister. Ladies' perfume decorated the already spiced air and above it all rose the gentle sound of laughter.

Percy balked.

Tavington fell into her, earning an annoyed jab in the gut. Benton likewise collided with his backside and he glared at her furiously. The doctor, as usual, pretended not to notice.

"Madam?" Tavington tried to lean closer to Percy, tried to usher her within. The press of people was near overwhelming, the guests all drawn to the clatter of punch glasses and the scent of roasted and sweet meats alike.

Percy shook her head and tendrils of her wig tickled his nose. "Where is John?"

Tavington looked quickly over his shoulder, expecting to see a jolly-faced Andre hurrying up the drive, his Roman helmet bouncing to and fro. But he saw naught but strangers, saw naught but colonials and pale-faced officers and the beaming Benton.

Covenly was gone too.

"I don't know, madam," he told Percy swiftly, "but we _must_ step inside, it is getting rather-damn it!"

Someone had slammed into his shoulder, a portly man that swayed as he walked. Tavington bit his tongue. Percy was likewise shoved aside.

"Beasts of the field," she growled, though Tavington heard a catch in her voice. "Come along now, we shan't linger. Come, _Howe_ is waiting."

But her face was flushed as they passed through the foyer and Her Madamship kept looking back over her shoulder, kept searching for Andre. The concern in her eyes was blatant.

Tavington didn't have time to ponder over his absence, but decided to treat his rival's withdrawal as a minor victor. He attempted to offer Percy his arm instead, but she batted him away, forcing through the crowds with all the determination of a bull dog.

Little by little, the tide of people ebbed away. Percy's pace slowed and Tavington sensed her tension, her hesitancy. They found General Howe in the parlor, holding court with a gaggle of young, promising officers whom Tavington envied. The commander-in-chief himself was mortal enough, his reputation for battle field glory often belying his easy presence. Dressed like Caesar himself, he had a round belly but a pleasant face and a warm, inviting laugh. Howe was the sort of officer soldiers liked, a man who had first served under the fabled General Wolfe, a warrior who had stormed the heights of Abraham during the Seven Years War. And he had a decidedly genteel air about him, a touch of royalty that was most certainly due to his heritage. His grandmother had been the mistress of George I, making him an illegitimate descendant. At forty-seven, he was an impressive figure and Tavington couldn't understand why Percy hated him so.

But then again, Her Madamship wasn't entirely right in the head.

Upon glimpsing Percy's arrival, Howe gallantly strolled forward, captured her hand in his and kissed her wriggling fingers.

"Oh, my dear, _dear_ General Percy, how wondrous! I am so pleased you could make it."

Percy blanched and her mouth dropped open. She emitted several faint gasping sounds and for perhaps the first time in her life, appeared speechless.

Tavington raised a discreet brow himself, unnerved by Percy's sheer terror. Yes, _terror_. She was frightened of Howe.

How charming! It was refreshing to see her humbled by a man. He smiled to himself and soaked in the merry atmosphere with a sigh. The parlor was alight with ivory candles and the guests were laughing, celebrating.

Tavington noticed that the room was brimming with a motley mixture of colonials and officers. Howe's entourage took up most of the space in front of the flame-scarred fireplace, though a few distinguished generals were at hand as well. To Howe's left, Tavington spotted the austere but gentlemanly General Charles Earl Cornwallis, Percy's deputy. The chain of higher command in the army was laid out quite clearly, starting with Howe, then Clinton, then Percy and finally Cornwallis. From her frequent complaints, Tavington discerned that Percy wished for more elbow room and felt wedged in the middle of the often warring hierarchy. But she rarely complained about Cornwallis and mentioned him even less. Her indifference intrigued Tavington, although now he was too engrossed by her interaction with Howe to mind the matter.

"Your invitation was most gracious," Percy managed to reply at last. Her eyes found the elegant family crest emblazoned on his mock cuirass. "I thank you."

Howe laughed and smiled at one of his aides. "So polite," he remarked, humming through his nose. "Dear Percy is always _so_ polite. Gentility does not suit her reputation, however. She's a madwoman, I'm certain of it."

The company laughed at the light joke. Percy frowned, never having been one for humor at her expense.

"I suppose," she said, shifting, moving about on her feet as though snakes coiled about her legs. She was searching for something to say, floundering about but Tavington was not one to come to her aid.

Cornwallis did instead.

"Madam." He stepped forward and bowed.

Howe acknowledged his arrival with another smile. Percy nodded breathlessly.

"My lord Cornwallis, good evening," she panted.

Cornwallis, his dress somewhat understated, surveyed her sympathetically. "My deepest condolences, madam. I heard of your Aunt's passing from a friend in England. I know she was dear to you."

Percy nodded once more, her wig slipping forward over her forehead. "Aunt Aurelia was always well known amongst the peerage."

"As you shall be someday."

Percy blushed.

Howe inhaled sharply and mumbled something under his breath. Cornwallis respectively drew away.

A moment of silence prevailed, in which Mrs. Loring, Howe's mistress, appeared in the wings.

She was wearing a colorful gown. A crude spear was clutched in her right hand in hand and a red wig sat perched upon her head.

Tavington heard Percy groan.

Howe glanced once over his shoulder at his paramour and then back at Percy with a knowing grin.

The insult was gratuitous, or so Tavington guessed. The role of Boadicea was reserved for ladies of the military only, not mistresses. And all in one moment, Percy had her rank, dignity and name offended.

She opened her mouth, this time her breath hissing in her throat. Steel, her eyes were steel, cold, merciless, sharp.

Tavington recognized her rage, anticipated a barrage of unworthy slurs tossed at Howe. He made to step forward and guide her away or be torn limb from limb in the melee.

But Cornwallis did instead.

"Madam," he said simply.

Tavington saw Percy stiffen as he gently led her away.

Howe watched them leave with an airy huff and then immediately turned back to his business with his mistress, assuredly having put Percy back into her place for the night.

Tavington tore his eyes away from the commander-in-chief and elbowed his way through the string of sycophants and gawkers. He found Cornwallis and Percy settled in a discreet, empty corner with Her Madamship's expression leaping between perturbed and curious.

"I am happy to see that you are in good health," Cornwallis said softly. His bearing was not overwhelming like Howe's, not infused with distracting bravado. And yet, for some strange reason, Percy was clearly threatened.

She nodded.

"I should say all that business at Brooklyn Heights was rotten enough, " he continued steadfastly and with a kind, fatherly gesture, he touched her forearm. "It is indeed a joy to see you up and about again."

Percy nodded once more.

Cornwallis took a deep breath, his eyes narrowing slightly in thought rather than accusation. "Forgive an old fool, madam, but you should not let Howe's dalliances disturb you. A slight it was, though not intended, I assure you. He has a great respect for your person, madam, a deep, well-founded respect."

Percy laughed. "I never took you for Howe's trained pup, General," she said.

"I'm not," Cornwallis replied gravely.

Tavington's finger joints tightened and he groaned inwardly. Ah, so here was her rudeness at last. Delayed, yes, but always dependable. He looked over his shoulder, searched for Andre or Covenly, but could find no one. Benton alone stood smirking to herself, chatting over a cup of punch with a trio of twittering American girls. Covenly had asked him to watch over Percy, to insure that she did little injury to her career this night. But that feat was indeed impossible and he suspected he would do greater harm by interrupting her now.

But then surprisingly, Percy remembered her rare talent for civility.

"Then let us have no more talk of him. It is Christmas, after all." She shrugged. "Tell me, how is your wife? How is Jemima?"

Cornwallis brightened and his shoulders relaxed, the slope of his back smooth beneath his mock Roman cloak. "Well, thank you. Very well. And your daughter Amelia?"

"Quite the wretch, I assure you," Percy laughed. "She is blessed that I am here and not in England. I was never one to spare the rod."

Cornwallis's lips twitched in a faint smile and to Tavington's great shock (and relief) the two generals engaged in a quiet, amiable conversation. He felt himself begin to relax, the constant tension slipping from his limbs and leaving him loose-and thirsty. Letting his guard down for the first time in months, he searched for a servant, snatched up a glass of wine for himself and began to enjoy the practiced hum of the musicians, even though the harpsichordist was out of tune.

Wouldn't it be lovely if Percy was so restrained every day? Wouldn't it be so pleasant if she was manageable? If all women were? Tavington had of course encountered his share of strong-willed ladies in his day, his mother being one of them and yet he found the fair sex to be tame for the most part. Percy was a thorn in a briar patch. A military mastermind she might be, but otherwise, she had almost no sense. Hmm, if only she could be controlled, then he would gladly serve with her.

But as usual, Percy's skill for courtesy was shadowed by insincerity and great impulse. Tavington had been observing her conversation with Cornwallis from a safe distance, his attention drifting, when the words became sharp, daggers in their own right and Percy took offense.

General Clinton was mentioned.

"I was wondering, Percy, have you heard anything from Clinton up in Newport?" Cornwallis asked lightly, signaling the start of the storm.

Percy stiffened. It was well known that Clinton and Cornwallis disliked each other, Clinton reeling from some slight, imagined or not. Tavington did not fully understand the intricate politics that dominated the army's hierarchy, though from the glimpses he had been granted, he assumed veteran officers often resorted to childish tactics, bickering, name-calling and generally playing favorites. Percy, as expected, was always in the thick of it.

She flexed her fingers now, looked away and pretended to study the long tables lined with tiers of cakes and dried fruit. "Why do you ask?"

"Curiosity," Cornwallis replied at once. He shifted, clearly sensing Percy's upset.

"Then I am afraid I cannot satisfy your interest, your prying," she sniffed. "I've heard no more than you, I suspect. You know Harry, he is rarely cordial."

"Indeed." Cornwallis was looking perplexed and Tavington wondered if he shouldintervene _now_. But rare caution kept him away, though all the while he searched for Andre or Covenly. Only Benton was in earshot, as it was, laughing now, bickering good-naturedly with an affronted matron.

"Then you have not heard the rumors?" Cornwallis pressed.

Percy's eyes widened ever so slightly. "Rumors, sir?"

"Clinton is petitioning London for leave, he wants no more of this business. He's leaving."

Tavington thought Percy would faint. She did turn an odd shade of red, one akin to her wig and hastily called for wine from a passing servant.

"Do not believe everything you hear, sir," she chuckled once the glass had been pressed into her shaking hand, "Harry would never leave. I have it on good authority. He told me so."

"Then he has lied to you, madam. I hear he is ready to depart."

Percy was pale now and Tavington, despite his misgivings, did take a step forward and made his presence known. For his troubles he received a half-hearted slap across the jaw from her wildly waving hand.

"Insanity," she hiccupped, pushing past them both with a fierce grunt. "A right den of rogues this is. God….God help me!"

Percy all but disappeared in the crowd of couples cavorting to the minuet, distinguishable only by her messy wig. Tavington made to follow her, but a hand fell on his shoulder and he turned, finding Cornwallis's eyes.

"Best let her calm down, Captain. Nothing you can do for a woman in hysterics."

Tavington dipped his head in appreciation. "I thank you, sir, but I must attend to my general."

Cornwallis raised a brow, cynical laughter leaping from his parted lips. "It's your duty, I suppose? I don't envy you. You're a good soldier, it seems, to withstand such-"

"Intemperance, sir?"

"Quite right." Cornwallis nodded. "But who I am to judge? Good luck, Captain. And Merry Christmas."

"And to you, sir." Tavington saluted quickly, but did not hurry after Percy at once. He was tired of chasing her, despite the promised reward of advancement. After all, why should he give a damn for her precious career when she couldn't care less for him?

He beckoned a servant, snatched up a second glass of wine and watched Howe's happy court with a strange mixture of jealousy…and shame.

* * *

**Author's Note: **Everything mentioned about Howe is true, his friendship with General Wolfe, his part in storming the heights of Abraham, his "royal" heritage and his mistress, Mrs. Elizabeth Loring. I have, however, altered the chain of command somewhat to include Percy. Historically, Howe was the commander-in-chief, with Clinton as his deputy and _then _Cornwallis. The tension between the generals briefly mentioned in this chapter is also accurate. Clinton hated Howe and Howe knew it, which is why he always tried to keep a distance of several colonies between them when he could. Later on in the campaign, Clinton made the mistake of telling Cornwallis just how much he disliked Howe and Cornwallis "tattled" to their commander. Afterwards, Clinton and Cornwallis didn't get along and it is speculated that their animosity led to the mismangement of the Southern campaign.

Speaking of Clinton, he did indeed leave the colonies sometime in the winter of 1777 and tried to resign from his command, although he was pressured to return to his post and did so shortly thereafter. However, I cannot find the exact date of his departure from the colonies and I've looked almost everywhere. Some sources have him leaving just after the American victory at Trenton (which took place early on the morning of December the 26th) others already have him in England by then and yet another source said he returned home in the spring. Since he was back in the colonies by the summer, I cannot see him leaving in the spring. Therefore, in this fic, he will remain in the colonies until sometime after the Battle of Trenton because that particular date fits well into the plot.

Cornwallis was also set to leave the colonies for a time, but was held back due to the Battle of Trenton. I'm certain he was _thrilled_ about having to work overtime.

And again, the tradition of Boadicea's Ball is quite fake and of my own invention.

Thanks so much for reading! The next vignette, in which Tavington meets Colonel Margaret Havens and learns that perhaps Percy isn't such a wretched woman after all, should be posted soon. Please take the time to review. Feedback means the world to me and I would love to hear from you. Have a great weekend!


	12. Dethroned

**Author's Note: **I suppose this installment is a perfect example of a character deciding to take control of the story for a while. Needless to say, I did not plan vignette but Percy seemed to demand it. I'm afraid Tavington won't appear in this installment, but he will be back for the next one. As always, I would like to thank everyone who read the last chapter and those that reviewed, **bubblymuggle **and **AliBlack**. I hope you enjoy!

**Disclaimer: **I claim no ownership of the Patriot. However, I do own all OCs mentioned herein including Major General Julia Percy.

**Dethroned**

General Percy had decided against taking off her wig. No, that would look silly indeed, with her hair all wound up in a greasy knot at the nape of her neck and she not having any powder to style it. So instead she sat, sat on one of the stone benches in the frost-touched garden and watched Christmas night drift slowly by.

It was cold, quite cold and the wind was unkind. But she was glad for the brisk breezes. With each gust her tears were dried and she was reminded sharply of her flaws. Officers did not weep, no, not even if they had a bayonet protruding from a limb. And it wasn't like her to cry. Well, she had been feeling a bit off lately, a sickness akin to that which struck shortly before she had discovered her _condition_ all those years ago. Nine months later, Amelia had been pressed into her arms, a wailing, wiggling, wretched child that wanted everything from a mother who could give her nothing.

Percy wasn't a fool and fortunately, she had enough money tucked away to pay for a governess to raise the brat. And then she was off soldering while her daughter ran up debts at home.

It wasn't a very happy life, Percy concluded, but sufficient enough.

She always fancied herself half-farmer, a woman who worked from sun up till sun down and sometimes had to drive away the wolves with a pitchfork. But her scythe was a sword and she planted soldiers into lines, not corn into rows. And no good came from soldier's work or so her mother said.

Percy sniffed and curled her toes inside her leather boots. She could hear Howe laughing from inside his damned "palace" and he had deep, rolling chuckle that reminded her much of thunder. She checked the horizon for lightening.

He thought he was so fine, he did. Thought he was such a warrior, such a Caesar. But he wasn't and Percy satisfied herself with the thought. He was a waste and history would judge him as such. And…and that Mrs. Loring was naught but a silly goose, yes, fit for plucking and boiling and a pot full of broth.

It didn't matter in the end, who wore the red wig and mimicked Boadicea. It didn't matter that they mocked her, judged her and called her unfit to serve.

She _was_ a good soldier.

Percy tucked her numb fingers against her warm lips and blew on them. Tears trickled down her long nose.

Why, then, was she crying?

Perhaps it had something to do with the pain, she told herself. The pain that twisted her maimed hand and crawled up her arm and set her shoulder ablaze. Or perhaps it was because she was so very weary, tired of it all and wished to go home. Or perhaps it was because Harry was leaving.

Percy gulped.

He couldn't…no he had promised her. She needed him. If Clinton left she would be alone and they would chase her down, spear her through the heart and roast her over a spit. And it would be all over for her career, for her life.

Well, it wouldn't be the first time Harry had deserted her. And to think, Harriet Benton had always warned her about him, had always told her not to meddle with….

"I thought I might find you here. Dear God, you look miserable." Andre rounded a hedge, his hands shoved inside his cloak.

Percy quickly flicked her tears away. "Where did _you _run off to?"

"I had a word with the coachman."

"And Covenly?" she asked.

Andre tilted his head just so, the moonlight framing him, silhouetting his strong shoulders and kind face. "Major Covenly? I haven't seen her about all evening."

"Hmm, well she went missing too." Percy crossed her arms over her chest. She hated dishonesty and here stood her lover, lying through his teeth.

Andre smiled. "You've become impossibly paranoid of late. I don't know where Covenly is. I swear on my honor."

Percy scoffed. "You swear? It would not be the first time."

Now Andre looked thoroughly perplexed. "Julia, I never-"

"Never mind. I was speaking of someone else."

He nodded and promptly sat, not on the bench next to her, but on the ground, at her feet.

Subservience. Andre knew that she prized it and he gladly played a supine role in their relationship, unlike some of her previous lovers who had annoyed her with demands and protests and foolishness. Percy had learned long ago that junior officers made better companions as opposed to her own peers.

"I assume," he began, sighing deeply, "that we are to spend the rest of the night in the garden."

"I said nothing of the sort," she snapped. Dear God, she did feel testy and her back was aching. Poor Andre, she shouldn't take it _all_ out on him. He had been good to her after all, even if he didn't love her and their affair was a moronic charade that served only to indulge her lust and promote his standing.

Andre glanced up at and pulled off his silly helmet, setting it on his lap. "You are weeping." He reached for his handkerchief.

Percy shook her head. "Leave it, I'm fine."

"You look like death warmed over."

"You flatter me." She extracted her own linen handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes. "My mood always sours in the winter, you know that."

"Hmm." Andre exhaled sharply through his nose. "This is about Howe, is it not?"

Percy glared at him suspiciously. "Who told you?"

"Tavington. I met him inside. He was concerned."

Percy cleared her throat and allowed for a moment of silence. Tavington was concerned? No, she couldn't picture it. He was a stoic man, steely and hard as nails. And he didn't give a damn about her.

But surprisingly, Percy liked him. The lad wasn't sentimental, wasn't one to go a-weeping and a-whining over every little thing. He was independent and strong and she admired him for it.

Without a doubt, he would go far.

"Well, I do hope he was enjoying himself," she replied, stowing away the now soiled handkerchief and tapping her left foot impatiently on the dead grass.

"He was. I saw him chatting with an American-born office, a colonial. Ah, her name escapes me now. But he was being quite amiable."

"You sound shocked." Percy managed a smile for her paramour.

Andre, on the other hand, grimaced. "He's a beast."

"I like him."

"I know."

"And you cannot countenance him." Percy leaned forward and ruffled his hair with her fingers. "I'd rather you two get along, but I cannot complain. Just try not to spill each other's blood. It stains the carpets so."

Andre laughed lowly. "Madam, my teeth are quite dull." And he clicked them together as if to prove his point. Percy let him nibble on her palm before pulling away.

"Is Howe still about?" she asked in a quiet voice.

The mood became somber. Andre rubbed his hands together. "He was dancing with Major Catherine Finnie last I saw."

"That little chit?" Percy growled. "Doesn't know which way the wind is blowing, if you ask me. A fool and a…a…oh, John, I'm tired."

"Julia?" Andre raised himself to his knees and touched her thigh.

Gently, she pushed his arm away and ignored his ashen face..

"Who's to say I shouldn't follow return to England?" she said, and now, despite her struggle, despite the aching, tense veins in her neck, she began to cry anew.

"Julia!" Andre shook her roughly then. "This despair is so very irksome. Can't you leave off for a moment?"

He was trying to soothe her, she knew that much, but his words were lost to the ringing that rattled her eyes. Percy closed her fingers over her eyes.

"For God's sake." Andre sounded annoyed and he wrenched her hands away from her face. "Stop this silly nonsense now. _I'm_ tired as well. Dammy, you would think we had lost the war from your weeping. It's very unbecoming for Her Madamship to be seen sobbing in the gardens like this, moaning in the arms of her lover, good Lord."

"I don't care," she mumbled. "It's enough, John. Clinton's right. It's enough. Let Howe win his wretched laurels."

"And what of yours, eh?"

"Mine?" Percy threw back her head with a harsh laugh, the stars smiling cynically along with her. "My laurels? Ah yes, here they are." And she tore off the scarf she used to disguise her maimed hand and flexed her three remaining fingers. The discolored flesh where her ring finger and little finger had once been was hardened by scar tissue, the remaining knuckles misshapen and stiff.

Andre said nothing.

"Where is my glory?" Percy demanded of his silence.

"I don't know."

"No, I suppose you don't." She stood, arms clenched by her side. Andre fell back and braced himself on the ground.

"Julia, what _is_ all this?"

"Clinton's leaving, were you not listening?"

Andre's face froze, only his eyes widening slightly as a pensive breath escaped his lungs. "When?"

"Soon and Cornwallis was already crowing about it." Percy sniffed loudly and looked over her shoulder. Through an upper story window, she spotted a flash a color, a shadow of a crimson cloak and she imagined the mindless couples dancing, enjoying the light chatter and music she rarely indulged in.

And yet she envied those fools, envied their ignorance and hated her own prickly ways.

"Oh." Andre's mouth dropped open, his plump lips curved in a smooth circle. "Well, it isn't a shock, I should say."

Percy did not reply, she couldn't. Andre was a smart man, smart enough to sniff out a truth she would rather keep hidden. It made her nervous, it did, when a man took it into his mind to pry about her association with Clinton.

And so with a final sigh and a shake, she gathered herself. Andre was right, this was no time for tears, no time for hysterics. Cornwallis could certainly be lying, even though she never had reason to doubt his honesty in the past.

Oh well. Oh bloody well.

She waved her hand once, signaling an end to her upset. "Get up, will you? You look like a dog all stretched out on the grass. It's bitter, God, I'm frozen. Probably catch a cold and die. That would please Howe, eh? Let's go in. I need something to warm, some brandy."

Andre scrambled to his feet and cradled her arm in-between his. Without a word, they battled the wind and slipped discreetly back into the party. The house was indeed warm and inviting and Percy put it into her mind that she would enjoy herself, or at least try to. But her good intentions came crashing down as she moved into the drawing room and encountered Captain Tavington on the point of being assaulted by Colonel Margaret Havens.

"Amiable, you said?" she mused to Andre before jumping into the fray.

* * *

**Author's Note: **Well, can you believe it? No long author's notes! Percy is too historically inaccurate herself to warrant one, I guess. 

Thanks so much for reading! Please take the time to review and let me know what you think. I would love to hear from you. Feedback truly is the lifeblood of this story. Have a great weekend!


	13. Eruption

**Author's Note: **I must confess that Col. Margaret Havens, who is featured in this chapter and will continue to play an important role in this story, is quite an old character of mine. Originally, she was the main OC I created for two historical fiction novels I wrote for fun with one of my best friends. She was the "Percy" of those stories, though she was more idiotic and whiney than Julia. However, since I'm a neurotic writer, I decided to resurrect her for this fic (with my friend's permission) and make her the villain as opposed to the heroine. Either way, I hope you hate her, as she is a long-time "friend" of mine and I tend to have a soft spot for her, which is unhealthy when it comes to writing the bad guy.

I would like to thank everyone who took the time to read the last chapter and those that reviewed, **bubblymuggle** and **Cid62**. Thanks so much! As you know, I love all forms of feedback. I hope you enjoy!

**Disclaimer: **I claim no ownership of the Patriot. However, I do own all OCs mentioned herein including Major General Julia Percy, Colonel Margaret Havens, Major Covenly and Doctor Benton.

**Eruption**

Much to his surprise, Captain Tavington enjoyed his evening spent at General Howe's party. Following Percy's undignified exit, he had half-heartedly searched for Andre and Covenly, all the while ignoring Benton's fiendish laughter that seemed to trail him about the house. Failing to find either of his fellow aides, he cursed them soundly and then returned to the parlor.

Thankfully, Howe was a devotee to Bacchus and wine was in no short supply. He drank a glass or two, sampled some syllabub and pointedly ignored the temptation to retire to the gaming tables upstairs. His father had been a gambler and a drunk and Tavington took after his sire in at least the former instance. Having squandered much of his inheritance in London's smoky, port-drenched salons and at the tables of former "friends" he had overcome his vice by avoiding the practice altogether. It had been a hard habit to ignore, but after purchasing his commission and learning that his lieutenant's pay was limited, he rationed his money and spent it wisely. The result was an exercise in forbearance and even though Tavington was not one to shy from debauchery, he did not wish to experience the dishonor of having to sell his commission to alleviate debt.

So instead, he distracted himself in the ballroom, the floor of which seemed to groan under the enthusiastic feet of dozens of dancers. It was then that he made the acquaintance of a colonial, a Loyalist officer who excitedly introduced herself as Captain Sarah Paddock. While not the best conversationalist, Captain Paddock was dressed finely enough, opting for licentiousness as opposed to modesty. Her mock Iceni gown was supported by stiff stays that did wonders for her bosom.

Tavington had been thoroughly enjoying her company when a harried Andre rushed up and nearly toppled him over.

"Where is she?" he demanded, acting as though Tavington was a villain who had kidnapped Percy and was now asking for a high ransom in return.

Tavington smiled brightly. "I haven't the slightest notion. You shouldn't have wandered off."

Andre turned red and looked fit to burst. Tavington recognized the man's seriousness. He ushered him discreetly away from Captain Paddock and briefly told him of the occurrence with Howe.

"Dear God." Andre looked as though he had been struck and indeed, he did reel backwards.

Tavington stuck out an arm to keep him from falling into the seated flutist.

"And you didn't follow her?" Andre panted as soon as he had recovered.

"No," Tavington replied, nodding politely at the impatient Paddock who hovered nearby. "After all, I should _hate_ for you to feel threatened."

Andre's lips twitched compulsively. "Oh very well played. But forgive me, I haven't the stomach for such intrigues now."

He hurried off, the crest of his helmet bobbing like a horse's tail.

Tavington snorted derisively and turned back to Paddock.

The gala progressed smoothly for a time and he found he was not wanting for willing partners. Two minuets Tavington danced with the fidgety Paddock and then a country gambol with a Miss Kitty Van Horn, the daughter of a loyalist and a reputed beauty.

Covenly came around sometime after the gambol and in a horrifyingly awkward manner, Tavington asked her to dance. He felt obliged to, as it was, and if Percy had been about, they certainly would have shared a dance or two as well. Covenly, however, was most distracted. She bleakly asked if he had seen Percy anywhere and being quietly informed of the evening's events, she sighed tersely, chin wobbling.

"I feared as much," she said enigmatically. "But what's there to be done about it now?." And she walked away, sloped off with a grunt and Tavington did not see her again for quite some time.

But no matter, he thought. Wherever Percy and Andre and Covenly happened to be, he was exceedingly glad _not_ to be with them.

After spending a good hour dancing, he retired to a small antechamber off the ballroom filled with fluttering fans and gentlemen dressed oddly as Roman senators or soldiers. A glass of brandy left him feeling light, though his mood was slightly dampened as vicious little lass pulled him to the side and warned him about Paddock.

"Her sister has of late run off and joined Washington's rabble," the girl informed him with a harsh whisper. "Best keep your distance now, eh?"

Tavington tried not to appear repulsed. It was common knowledge that Mr. Washington's rag-tag excuse for an army was likewise populated by woman. The rebels declared them "daughters of liberty", women from the Puritanical New England's stock, enlightened Philadelphia and the sultry South.

The ladies of the British army, however, called them barbarians.

Tavington himself had never encountered that certain species of female yet, though he very much doubted their virtues. Before the war, women were typically discouraged from joining the provincial troops, a strange act that incited the worries of many English female officers. If the Crown and the House of Commons restricted the martial roles of women in the colonies, how might things fare in England in a few years?

But all worries were quickly set aside after the first stirrings of rebellion and talented officers such as Percy and the now retired General Abigail Reed found their careers revitalized after the outbreak of war on the roads of Lexington and Concord. They had no qualms about campaigning against their colonial sisters and as the vicious little lass had proven to Tavington, loyal American sentiment was generally against these women as well.

"A disgrace," she babbled on, "her own sister is a rebel officer now. I wouldn't meddle with her sir, I wouldn't. Strange people the Paddock's are."

And after disclosing such gossip, the woman tried unsuccessfully to engage him for the rest of the evening. Tavington saved himself with an excuse and went back downstairs to the parlor which was mostly empty…save for one woman.

She was standing alone, a solitary creature perched in the corner like a stone statue. But ah, this woman was not made of stone, but flesh, warm inviting flesh that blushed under the golden candlelight. Tavington, being a stealthy, crafty man himself, wandered casually into the room and stopped by a table laden with sugared fruits. He picked a grape from a cream-colored bowl and fitted it to his lips.

The woman ignored him.

An officer she was, so said the red coat that showed beneath her gown which was more of a toga and hung like a drape off her left shoulder. Fashionable she wasn't but a Colonel she was. Her hair hadn't been powdered and unlike Percy's mock wig, her tresses were red, oh so deliciously red.

Margaret Havens.

The name leapt into his mind and like a well in the dry desert, flooded his every sense. She was Colonel Margaret Havens, the Irishwoman who had fought over Captain Ahearn with Percy and given a whipping to a soldier who had stared at her too boldly.

Tavington dropped another grape into his mouth.

Hmm, she had a demure look about her she did. Head down, eyes to the floor. The tips of her blackened boots showed from underneath the peach gown. Havens moved, shivered almost and he saw her dainty legs shift, covered still by nankeen breeches. She drank greedily from her wine glass.

Tavington turned languidly about.

So this was Percy's rival, the woman Her Madamship had termed the "basest of bitches". No, he could not reconcile such a description with the muse before him, the Grecian nymph, the Roman goddess with her green-tinged eyes. Caution bade him ignore her, but ah, Tavington relished in his weakness for once. Percy would be furious if she knew he had spoken with her. She was strict when it came to lines of loyalty, but oh, why the hell should he not cross them now?

It was Christmas, after all.

He waited until she was looking away and had put her back to him. Surely, Tavington had no intention of affronting a superior officer, but he found that surprise was indeed more thrilling and certainly left a lasting impression.

He walked towards her.

"Madam," he began, but Havens did not seem to hear him. Instead, she whirled about, staring out into the gardens that shadowed the long windows and her dress was caught about his feet.

Tavington tripped into her.

There was a screech and a squeal and of sudden, her wine was thrown in his face.

"Wretch!"

Something stung his cheek and it took Tavington a moment to realize that he had been slapped. Retreating at once, he gathered himself and tried to apologize.

"Madam, I beg your pardon."

But Colonel Havens was already beyond reason.

Tavington had never seen a woman go mad in a moment's space. Even Percy, who was prone to her fits, always retained some semblance of dignity and sense.

Not Havens.

She stared at him as though he were indeed a wretch, a mere piece of chattel that had been discarded and left for her to abuse.

"Son of a bloody, poxed whore! How dare you?" she shrieked, her shrill resonance shattering the evening's merriment and driving a few curious onlookers into the doorway.

"My deepest apologies, madam," Tavington replied. He stepped back respectively, but she advanced, eyes dangerously wide.

Something was wrong, terribly, horrifically wrong and Tavington couldn't quite put his finger on it. Havens no longer looked beautiful but…off, touched in the head as the toothless old groom on his father's estate used to say. He thought back to chubby Ahearn, who had apparently fled her staff and found shelter with Percy the moment he set foot in the colonies. Up until now, Tavington was certain that Percy was the last person a man would seek refuge with, overbearing and demanding towards her aides as she was. But he was beginning to have some inkling as to why Percy might be preferably to Havens, as the Irishwoman seemed distracted in every sense of the word.

"I'll have you flogged, I will," Havens threatened now, her face as red as her wild curls. "Leave you good and bloody. I say! I say! A court martial is in order. Assaulting a superior officer! Ought to have you lashed! Ought to have your bloody brains blown out!"

And she did reach forward, her hand grabbing the front of his jerkin. Tavington was sorely tempted to push her weak fingers away and damn the inevitable consequences.

It was only the swift arrival of General Percy then, that kept him from violence.

She was there in a flash, a true Boadicea and with one thrust from her thin shoulder, she had wedged her way between them.

"Havens!"

There was a moment's breathless pause, in which Tavington fell back into the fruit table and spotted an extremely cautious Andre slipping through the spectators and into the room. To his surprise, his rival cast him a sincerely sympathetic look and promptly hid in the corner.

The two women stood in the center, both panting, nostrils flared and hands clenched into tiny, but intimidating fists .

And then Havens sniffed airily, glancing at Tavington as her rage was replaced with sheer disdain.

"Is _this _yours?" she asked Percy.

The bubbling voices in the hall ceased, ceding to hushed gasps. Covenly, like Andre, forced her way into the room.

Percy smiled. "Indeed."

They were staring at each other, heads thrown back and neither looking terribly submissive although Percy was the superior officer.

Havens chewed on the inside of her cheek. "How very like you to keep a rogue by your side, madam."

The insult was outrageous and Tavington could tell that Percy had had quite enough. Her name had already been dragged through the mud once tonight, due to Howe's courtesy or lack thereof. Certainly, she would stand for no more.

Her Madamship sighed once and it was long-suffering sigh, one that tempted Tavington towards pity. But the murderous tension drove thoughts of compassion from his mind and for the first time in his life, he almost felt grateful to have Percy with him.

His general's eyes flickered across the room and met his for a brief instant. "Go on," she said and it was a challenge, directed squarely at Havens. "Out with it. What's he done?"

Havens, clearly to clever to snatch such bait, shook her head a little. "I said he was a rogue, I did," she replied, her thick brogue lacing her words with thunder as opposed to gentleness. "Ogled me like a whore. You'll agree, madam, that such conduct is completely unbecoming." Here she paused and glanced at Andre, mocking, in an instant, both Percy and her lover.

"I see," Percy said. Her voice was clipped. She wheeled about. "Tavington, did you ogle her?" The question was unequivocal and he could do nothing but answer.

"No, madam."

Percy nodded at Havens. "There you have it."

Havens sneered, a snort dilating her nostril's once more. "You believe _him_, madam?"

"Of course," Percy replied in that same, meticulously measured voice.

"How can you?" Havens was incredulous.

Percy narrowed her eyes as more guests poured into the room and Tavington mercifully became part of a sea of elbows and legs and craning necks. The gladiatorial ring before them was dusted with fresh sand.

"Do you question me, Colonel?" Percy asked calmly.

Havens lifted her violently red brows. "Madam?"

Suddenly, Percy abandoned her false gentility and bared her teeth. "I swear to God, Havens, if you dare-if you _dare_-to raise your hand-or voice-to a gentleman of my family, I'll have them break your sword over your bonny red head and see you drummed out of the army."

Havens remained unmoved for a time, until her lips rippled with laughter.

And then the row that had laid dormant for months erupted like Vesuvius. The crowd pressed against Tavington and he felt suffocated. Andre too was likewise crushed, though even he did not seek to intervene and only Covenly was quick-and brave enough to push her way to the front.

In a matter of moments, when sharp words became twisted, indistinguishable from snarls, Howe's voice was heard on the stairs. But not even Caesar himself had the might to part them, verbally engaged as they were and Tavington stood in dumb shock, feeling awfully relieved all the while.

Percy, strange, squirrelly, senseless Percy, had defended him without question.

It was Benton who found him and dragged him outside and away from the tumult with her usual cackle.

"Come on, lad, this isn't a sight for your poor eyes," she said as he was led out of doors and into the garden while the battle raged within.

Tavington glanced over his shoulder and in through the parlor window. Percy's face was obscured by the crowd, her voice drowned out by Howe's, begging for silence.

Well, I ought to be damned, Tavington thought with a smirk. Percy was indeed a good officer and he was lucky, so very lucky to be her aide.

* * *

**Author's Note: **I'm happy to say that Tavington will finally have some romance in the next vignette. And can you guess who the lucky girl is? However, the relationship will be one of convenience and therefore, won't last. 

Obliviously, women did not serve as soldiers and officers in Washington's army, but as this story is based in alternate history, I made another exception to the rule just to balance things out between the Americans and British.

Also, a "gentleman of the family" (which Percy calls Tavington in this chapter) simply means that he is a member of her staff or military family along with Andre and Covenly, who would also be considered members of her "family".

Thanks so much for reading! As always, I would be thrilled beyond belief if you would take the time to review. Feedback means the world to me and I find it quite helpful to hear what I've been doing wrong or, on the off chance, right. Have a great week!


	14. The Harpy

**Author's Note: **Well, I have finally decided to pair Tavington up with one of my OCs. To be honest, I hated writing this vignette as it just seemed to come off as Sueish. Either way, don't get too accustomed to this pairing, for it will not last long. I would like to thank everyone who took the time to read the last installment and **bubblymuggle** for reviewing. I hope you enjoy!

**Disclaimer: **I claim no ownership of the Patriot. However, I do own all OCs mentioned herein including Doctor Harriet Benton.

**The Harpy**

They hadn't gone very far, had only reached the wall of dark hedges when Benton stopped, turned about and perched her hands on the hips.

"What a lucky lad you are!" she crowed, disregarding the fresh frost that blanketed the garden and every brash, bitter wind that blew.

Tavington tucked his hands inside his cloak. "So it would seem." He was listening hard, straining to hear the last signs of melee back inside the house. But all things were quite silent now and Tavington was tempted to return to the parlor, or at the very least, go in search of Percy.

Benton seemed to read his thoughts. She tossed her little head, mussing her already messy hair. "Let Julia see to Havens and Howe," she said. "You'll not be needed this night."

Tavington clenched his fingers. "Although the fault is entirely mine," he said, not feeling the least bit guilty. The stars were obscured again by a cluster of ruby-tinged clouds. In the distance, a horse whinnied from within the warm barn.

"That stands for little." Benton shrugged. "I am certain dear Julia was glad enough to have an excuse to go to war with Havens. Before, she had to keep things all genteel-like, drove her half-mad, I should know. 'Harriet' she said to me, 'I'm going to murder that Irish witch before the winter's out or the devil take us all'. I told her she shouldn't tempt the devil, but Julia was never one to listen to me, never one to…ah well." She broke off abruptly with a sighed.

Tavington gazed at her from underneath heavily-hooded eyes. That last bit of brandy had unhinged him indeed. "Well, I am most grateful to her," he said.

Benton cackled, her laugh annoyingly shrill and grating.

Tavington wasn't thrilled with her company to begin with and his patience was frayed, tearing at the seams. Without a word, he turned to go.

Benton followed.

"I'm not quite sure where you're headed off too," she chirruped, "it's dreadfully cold and I don't think your quite fit to walk all the way back to your quarters. Probably end up dead in ditch and on Christmas night, ha!"

Tavington swallowed a snarl. "Your concern is appreciated but unwarranted," he replied stiffly.

Benton laughed again.

Tavington felt his spine stiffen.

"Oh very well," she trilled, "run off, will you? And yet when all is said and done, I assure you it'll be Andre resting comfortably in Julia's arms tonight. Not you, my lad. Sorry."

And despite his steely stoicism, Tavington whirled around.

"Such insinuations," he grumbled, feeling decidedly provocative under the cloudy Christmas sky.

Benton stared at him. "Now let's not play that game," she said and her voice dropped a note. "We both know the truth of things and if you take the high ground, I'll drive you from it soon enough. Don't be vexing."

She was smart, Tavington would give her that. So easily she had trapped him, driven him to the rear and was now nipping at his heels at he retreated.

He decided to opt for honesty.

"What do you want with me?" he asked her.

Benton took no time in answering. "I only want to help! Yes, help. I feel so very sorry for you, good soldier like yourself being left all out in the cold. It isn't fair."

"Then you are mistaken," Tavington snapped. "I am certainly not looking for a love affair-"

"But you seek advancement," she interrupted.

Once more, he found himself caught off-guard. Ah, he would have to ration his brandy drinking from now on. It made his mind sloppy.

"And you can win me a promotion?" he asked, his voice dripping with venomous sarcasm.

Benton did not bat a eyelash. "I never said that, but I do know a fair bit about Julia. I can tell you how to tickle her fancy, I can."

Tavington did not want to admit that he was intrigued.

"Go on," he said slowly.

Benton brightened. "You don't trust me, do you?" she remarked. "Think I'm just a mouthy wench, eh? Well, what if you were to hear that I helped birth Julia's daughter in Germany about fifteen years ago. Aye, it was me. Told you I was an old family friend. And you can ask her, if you like. She'll tell you plainly."

Tavington raised a skeptical brow. "And such gossip gives me the advantage?"

"Oh no, not at all." Benton folded her fingers behind her back. "I'm getting to that, though I'm sure you already know not to mention Amelia. The girl has been throwing such a fuss lately. Julia wants to marry her off now that she has money aplenty for a nice dowry. I think she was chasing after William Pitt's youngest son. Her Aunt Aurelia knew the Pitt family well, but Julia tends to give herself, hmm, airs. It'll never come to be-"

"Do get on with it," Tavington muttered, exhibiting his exasperation with a annoyed flick of his hand. His curiosity was ebbing and he was beginning to think Benton was touched in the head as well. Perhaps all women were, in the end.

Benton looked thoroughly amused. She threw her head to the side, chin lifted as she offered him a conspiring grin. "It does you little good to be so demanding of me."

"I'd rather not have my time wasted," Tavington countered.

"Dear lad, I assure you, I have no desire to exhaust your patience."

"You already have."

"Then you'll never catch Julia's eye. No, you'll languish on her staff for some time, another year if you're fortunate. And then she'll tire of you and ship you off somewhere and your career will have been an utter waste."

Tavington mocked her with a snort. Truly, this woman was ridiculous. She had no notion of how things were run in the army. If Percy did indeed ignore him for a good while longer, he would quit her service and attach himself to another officer, an officer of worth, a clear-minded _man_.

But it hadn't come to that just yet.

"You think I should be worried about Andre?" he asked her. "You think I should fret and fuss over that feckless coward?"

She did not reply at once.

Tavington didn't know Benton well. He had only seen her several times about Percy's quarters when she came with her cloth bag and lancets for to bleed Her Madamship. But there was something disturbing in her countenance now, the way her eyes went blank and how she looked on him with a mixture of pity and concern.

"It isn't Andre you need to worry about, lad," she said slowly, "it's General Clinton."

Tavington's jaw slackened and he suddenly felt uncomfortable were he stood. He shifted his legs, trying to shake and loosen his limbs, but when his muscles only tightened, he gave up and dropped down onto the dead grass.

"Clinton, eh?" he asked unconcernedly. "He's bound for England. Lord knows if he'll be back. I should say there is not much for me to worry about."

But Benton's gaze hardened. "I only meant to warn you," she chided. "And here I thought you were a clever boy."

"I'm not a boy at all," Tavington replied sharply, having grown exceedingly weary of her patronizing tone.

"You do not understand," she continued and he thought she sounded empathetic. "This is beyond you, beyond Andre, though I wouldn't be surprised if pretty Johnny has sensed it already."

"You know, I've rather tired of your riddles." Tavington's demeanor cooled. "And your company, as it is."

Benton just shook her head. "Blind fool."

Tavington was on his feet then, approaching her with all the grace and agility of a seasoned hunter on the prowl. "Your insults are most stale."

Benton pursed her lips, her nose twitching slightly as she took his measure. They were standing quite close, Tavington noticed and for the first time, he smelled the faint perfume she wore. The scent was not overwhelming, but quite a delightful change from the usual stench of dried blood that clung to her person. Yet still, she looked like a dowdy field mouse, even though tendrils of wheat-colored hair had come undone and dusted the shoulders of her brown gown.

"I should say they aren't effective enough," she sniffed, breath staining the air with vapor and fog, "or you would have certainly learned to listen."

Perhaps it was the unused adrenaline from his argument with Havens that made him take hold of her or perhaps, Tavington was simply weary of being strung along by silly women. Whatever the reason, he grasped her arms firmly and shook her once.

Benton flushed.

"Then tell me," he demanded, head lowered, chin jerking towards her brow. "Tell me all of Percy's secrets. I'll sell each and every one to the devil for an ounce of decency and respect from your lot. Tell me." Tavington shook her again, shook her hard enough to make her teeth rattle.

Benton only stared at him, her lips now curled, body stiff. "And not a moment ago you were praising Julia, after all she's done for you, by God. Ought to be ashamed of yourself, you should. I'll never tell you a thing."

Rage brought his blood to a quick boil. Women, God damn them all. The fair sex indeed! To where had fled the days of male dominance? The age when a single stern glance from a lord was enough to silence his lady for an eternity? Certainly it had something to do with Boadicea dislodging the Romans from Briton all those years ago and Tavington felt the burning need to restore some of his gender's previous pride and control.

He kissed her.

She did not respond at once, was no whore, no harlot who reached for the buttons on his breeches. Instead she looked at him with her lively eyes, a half-smile shaping her face until she resembled one of Aeneas' harpies.

"Very clever," she replied after time and Tavington was surprised when she wrapped her arms about his waist. "But not quite clever enough."

* * *

**Author's Note: **Does anyone get where I am going with the whole Clinton thing? I do hope so, though please let me know if you're completely lost. I have a tendency to think that I am being too obvious when in reality, I'm quite secretive.

I have only a few notes for this vignette. Benton mentions Percy's attempts to marry her daughter off to William Pitt's youngest son (which would be William Pitt the Younger). However, as Benton remarks, such a match is never meant to be and historically, it would be grossly inaccurate, which is why I dare not try it. William Pitt the Younger remained single for his entire life and therefore, inspired many rumors of homosexuality. I personally think he was simply an asexual person, but that's just my humble opinion.

Tavington also mentions that Boadicea successfully drove the Roman's from England. In actuality, Boadicea suffered a massive defeat after a few early triumphs, so her victory is entirely of my own making.

Thanks so much for reading! I always, I would love to hear from you, so please take the time to review. Have a wonderful week!


	15. Trenton

**Author's Note: **I suppose this is a rather strange installment, as no Patriot characters are featured. However, it was necessary to move the plot forward. Finally, we're moving on to the Battles of Trenton and Princeton. Both Percy and Tavington will have significant parts to play in this campaign, however, I do intend to stray from history a little and create my own. This is where the alternate history comes in and I will certainly make note of where my history deviates from actual history.

I would like to thank everyone who took the time to read the last vignette and those that reviewed, **LazyChestnut** and** Scribe Of All Trades**. I hope you enjoy!

**Disclaimer: **I claim no ownership of the Patriot. However, I do own all OCs mentioned herein including Corporal Molly McGregor and Private Dutton.

**Trenton**

_December 26, 1776. Trenton, New Jersey. _

Corporal Molly McGregor of the 16th Light Dragoons jogged down the snow dusted Queen Street of Trenton. She had her hands tucked inside her coat, her chilly palms bouncing along with the throb of her thighs. Sleep clouded her eyes and she stopped briefly, blinking, yawning, her square jaw stretched wide.

The early morning sky still bore the tell-tale marks of a nasty storm that had harangued the town for almost all of Christmas night. Molly, a Scotswoman, was more than accustomed to the cold. And yet, there had been something biting in the wind last eve, something dangerous and threatening that made her retire gladly to her makeshift barracks in a commandeered Yankee home with the rest of the lassies. The laddies, of course, had stayed downstairs with a few of the rough-voiced Hessians and played cards. Neither Molly nor her companions much cared for the foreign mercenary soldiers and they piled a pallet or two against the door. Luckily, their stiff-lipped commander wasn't one to allow for such foolery…if he knew about it.

But the storm, like the night, had past by with little fuss, leaving things frozen and bleak and not at all pleasant to walk out in. Molly had her horse to tend to though and she preferred his silent company to the blathering of the other lassies.

With a sigh and a shuffle of her booted feet, Molly slide around one sharp corner and nodded at the Hessian guards stationed before Colonel Rall's house.

He was an odd sort of fellow, he was. Had stayed all night at table and was now likely sleeping off the dainty wine he had downed. Hmm, Molly didn't care for these Hessians, ungodly creatures that they were, abed at all hours, even with the sun cresting the closest hill and the sound of a distant tattoo…

Molly cocked her head to the side and listened. What was that? Sounded like drums almost, or…or guns. Couldn't be though, couldn't be anything except a few frantic farmers out hunting with fowling pieces.

She hurried into the blacksmith's barn that housed the 16th's horses. The musty, moist smell of dozing animals soothed her and she felt her limbs release, her finger joints unlocking as she leaned over Berry's stall.

Her mount had grown thin over the chilly winter months when her company had been stationed in New Jersey while the bulk of the army languished in Manhattan. But Molly wasn't one to complain and neither was Berry, for that matter. His warm lips rippled in a nicker and Molly stroked his patchy brown coat. The saddle leathers had rubbed against his flanks the night through and Molly slipped her hand past the girth, loosening the buckle with numb hands.

"Better, aye?" she asked him.

Berry munched thoughtfully on a bit of poor hay scattered about his empty trough.

"Well, that's a right rotten breakfast," she hummed through her nose, "what with it being Christmas and all. Here." And she slipped him a slice of stale bread she had sneaked from the kitchen. "Yankees think they can starve us out, though I'm certain half our laddies could live off their fat alone. Not us though, no, we're naught but bones."

Molly shivered, her uniform hanging off her now lanky frame. She had been a nicely shaped girl back in England and a bonny one at that before being shipped over to the unkind colonies where she was expected to starve and starve she sometimes did.

But it wasn't all bad, wasn't all wretched when she considered that she could be lying dead in some ditch, or worse, fall prey to the rebels.

Molly had heard that they didn't treat their women well. Yes, they used them as whores and spies and they were poor soldiers at that. At least she had a little prestige with the 16th, a little respect except for the times her sergeant took it into his mind to be vulgar….

Molly doubted that the gentlewomen officers had such problems.

But she had her pay, meager though it was and she sent back pennies to her dear old mam in Glasgow. A soldier lass had to be content with what she had, Molly concluded. No use wasting one's time with whining. Discontent, after all, only brought about threats from superiors and promised punishments.

Molly listened to the careful grind of Berry's teeth as he devoured the bread and looked for more.

"Sorry," she shrugged and held out her empty palms. "Wish I had-"

Two hands fell about her waist, squeezing all the air out of lungs and making her shriek in sudden fear.

"Molly! Pretty Molly! Come about now, my pet."

Molly fought her way out of the arms of the cheeky Private Dutton.

"It's cold in that rebel house," he told her.

"Colder out here," she said by way of scolding and scowled.

"Not really," the boy mewed. He was hopping about in his boots like a quirky cricket. "You know, it's unfair, I say. Bloody unfair. I didn't get what I wanted for Christmas, Molly."

"That's Corporal to you, lad," Molly reminded him sharply.

Dutton wrinkled his pert nose and adjusted his leather cap that barely covered his mop of milky blond hair. "Corporal it is then. But won't you have pity? Come now, you're heart ain't so prickly as one would think." And without warning, his arms slithered around her waist.

Molly tensed, the wind whistling in her ears, matching the roar of the hot blood pumping nervously from her heart. Dutton had always been an upstart of a boy and she had seen fit to reprimand him many a time. But then they had been on parade with officers aplenty about and now they were alone, alone in this damned Yankee barn with only the slumbering, snoring horses.

Fear lapped at her composure.

"Sorry, lad." She reached for his hands, but they tightened around her empty gut. Molly blushed.

"I only want one kiss," he crooned in her ear. "Just one quick kiss, that's all. Please, Molly. It's awful lonely spending Christmas night sleeping between a pair of smelly Hessians."

Molly hesitated. She wanted him gone and if a kiss would appease him, well, then she wouldn't mind. But then she thought back to all those court-martials, the ones where common soldier lasses accused their fellows of rape and were laughed at by superiors.

Molly would hate to be humiliated so.

Heaving a heavy sigh, she twisted her neck around and kissed Dutton quickly on the cheek.

"Off with you now," she ordered.

Dutton didn't move.

"I should say that was a poor kiss," he muttered and his hands twitched, moving up the front of her coat and undoing one button, then two, then three. "And I should say a quick roll in the hay is more to my liking now."

Molly tried to throw him off but he was stronger, his torso pinning her against the stall door while Berry shied and backed away. Her pleas couldn't stop Dutton, but the sound of musketry did.

"What was that?" he asked breathlessly, murky eyes suddenly wide as he looked towards the barn door.

"Guns," Molly replied, straightening her jacket with trembling hands. "Guns, not too far away."

"The Hessians?" Dutton looked at her.

Molly shook her head. "No." And she rushed out of the barn and onto Queen Street.

* * *

**Author's Note: **There was indeed a company of the British 16th Light Dragoons stationed in Trenton that Christmas, though they did leave as soon as the fighting started. As noted in this chapter, the British force was comprised of Hessians under the command of Colonel Rall. Rall did spend Christmas night playing cards and celebrating the holiday. Supposedly, he received a message warning him of Washington's advance and he put it in his pocket without reading it. The next morning, the note was found on his body after he had been mortally wounded. 

Thanks so much for reading! Please take the time to leave me a brief review. I'm hopelessly addicted to feedback and it is so helpful to hear what I am doing wrong or right, as it may be. Have a great week!


	16. Snubbed

**Author's Note: **This installment is more or less, all over the place. Well, not all over the place, just complicated, I suppose. This vignette is chock full of character-related info, as least when it comes to Percy, even though she only appears briefly. I actually considered cutting this installment in half, but that would only serve to slow things down more, which wouldn't do at al.. I would like to thank everyone who took the time to read the last vignette and those that reviewed, **LazyChestnut**, **Mona Lisa23** and **Scribe Of All Trades**. Thanks so much! Your feedback means the world to me. I hope you enjoy.

**Disclaimer: **I claim no ownership of the Patriot. However, I do own all OCs mentioned herein including Major General Julia Percy and Corporal Molly McGregor.

**Snubbed**

_December 27, 1776 New York City_

Captain Tavington received the news of the Hessian defeat at Trenton early on the morning of the 27th, just before the sun rose. He had gone downstairs with the utmost care not to rouse Her Madamship (or whoever might be dozing alongside her) to see to his mare who had pulled up lame a week before. The sharp knock on the front door alerted his attention and he even paused by the foot of the stairs, one hand cradling the cold banister post.

Dispatches, perhaps, he thought, his mind laboring through the last of sleep's fog. Certainly no man or woman would seek an audience with Percy before dawn lit the harbor of Manhattan. His general regularly slept past nine, a horrid habit for a soldier, but considering the amount of laudanum she ingested to soothe her various aches, he wasn't surprised.

Only the servants were up at this hour. Tavington glanced into the parlor and saw Percy's maid crouched by the low fire, blackening her mistress's boots.

He raised a sharp brow and gestured at the door, now jerking forward on it's hinges with the force of each panicked blow.

"Do you wish to wake the entire household?" he asked her.

The maid gathered herself with a jolt, laying Percy's boots to the side and hurrying into the hall with bowed head. Her petticoats whispered across the chilled floor.

Tavington blew on his hands and pulled up his coat collar.

"And why are the fires nearly out?" His voice was reproving, sharp, directed at the girl's stooped shoulders and back.

She did not respond.

The door was opened, letting in the last of the bitter night and a shaking, sweating soldier.

Tavington looked the woman up and down. She was a corporal, a dragoon as well and in her trembling, gloved hands, she bore a dispatch.

Strange, cavalrywomen weren't normally used as dispatch riders.

"Corporal Molly McGregor." She saluted smartly. "16th Light Dragoons. I've a message for General Percy."

Tavington raised the other brow. "I'm her aide. Give it here, Corporal."

But the mousy McGregor recoiled and tucked the sealed letter within the breast of her jacket. "I'm to place it in Percy's hands alone, sir, begging your most sincere pardon."

Now Tavington was annoyed. Pushing the maidservant to the side and advancing on McGregor, he extended one threatening arm. "Not unless you're looking for a lashing. Her Madamship is abed still. Leave it with me and I'll deliver it."

McGregor stared at Tavington in wide-eyed horror, her little, waxy lips quivering as she looked from him and then expectantly up the dark stairs to Percy's bedchamber.

And then, without another word, she burst into pitiful tears.

Tavington sighed in pure disgust. Percy might be a stoic herself, but most women weren't and they whined and wept and put up such a worrisome fuss at any sign of trouble.

Except for his mother.

And except for Harriet.

Tavington felt sorely tempted to haul off and belt the Corporal once across the cheek. With difficulty, he restrained himself.

"Oh, sir," she whimpered, her face now washed red and looking raw in the soft firelight. "It was most dreadful, sir. It's the Hessians, sir, at Trenton. And Mr. Washington, sir. A complete route of our forces!"

Her squeak of a voice suddenly seemed magnified and it echoed through the house.

Tavington scowled. "Insanity."

The woman had to be mad. Mr. Washington and his rabble were camped on the other side of the Delaware. And winter, tempestuous, unpredictable season that it was, always closed the campaigning year.

McGregor howled into her hands. "It's a bleeding disaster, sir, a damned, bleeding disaster."

Tavington was at his wits end when Percy's maidservant approached him with a strangely defiant look about her countenance.

"Your pardon, Captain," she said with an affected curtsey. "But she'll wake the _entire_ house with her wailing."

And yes, Tavington did hear some stirring up above, bare feet hitting the cold floor and miserable, drawn-out yawns.

He took the Corporal by the shoulders and shook her once. "That's enough now. Acting like a damned loon. Your captain ought to be ashamed of himself, commanding a herd of harlots fit for Bedlam."

McGregor clenched her jaw and with exaggerated difficulty, composed herself. "General Percy, sir," she muttered thickly. "I must see her."

Tavington stared at the woman long and hard. He hated to appear at a loss, but truly, he was. Did he dare disturb Percy for what might be a fool's errand in the end?

A defeat at Trenton certainly seemed implausible.

And yet, he wasn't feeling particularly reckless this morning, despite his natural tendency towards impulse.

"Up the stairs, quick," he grunted. "And I'll not speak for you, understand? If Her Madamship is in a sour mood, I can't be blamed. Hope you have your mind about you."

But somehow, Tavington doubted the woman's sense.

Quietly, he lead her up the stairs, stopping by the second door down the hall and knocking.

The corridor was dark still and only a sliver of light slipped out from underneath Percy's chamber door. Tavington heard the crackle of a fire within.

They waited, a moment, two, then three until McGregor began to get fidgety and Tavington wondered if should knock again.

At last, he heard hands fumbling about the door knob, then a creak. The hinges groaned in protest and a disheveled head peered into the hall.

Percy yawned once before stumbling out of her chamber entirely. Tavington was taken aback by her undressed state.

She was dressed in naught but her shift.

And he felt embarrassed for some reason, felt his cheeks flush and grow warm as she stared sleepily at him.

He had seen dozens of woman in less clothes than her before and shame had been the very last thing on his mind. But it seemed almost, sinful, no wrong, to see his General without her uniform. For underneath it all he saw her frail body, her breasts and skin and ribs that proved she was a mortal woman indeed.

Tavington took a respectful step back. "Madam, I apologize for the-"

Percy, as usual, was more direct. "Who is she?"

McGregor stepped shakily into Percy's presence. "Dispatches from Trenton, madam." A salute. "I was given orders to place them in your hands alone."

The messages were removed from McGregor's pocket and Percy snatched them up with an annoyed sigh.

Tavington watched as she read them over quickly, glanced up at McGregor and then read them once more.

"Hmm." At length, she smiled and neatly folded the parchment. "Mr. Washington has taken Trenton and Rall, the Hessian, is dead. How utterly exciting." A glance at Tavington. "Tell the maid to put on a pot of tea."

* * *

"Pardon my indecisiveness, sir," Corporal Bordon said as he kneeled by Tavington's mare, one hand cradling her injured hoof, "but I cannot decide if you are indeed a fortunate man or cursed." 

Tavington's lips rippled in a sigh. "Neither can I."

They were in the small stable behind the house, huddled in a hay-strewn stall to avoid the wind and the warbling wail of fifes.

Bordon knew something in the way of horses, being a cavalryman himself. He also knew of McGregor, a woman whom he had served with until she took off for Trenton.

And Tavington more than appreciated his sober company.

Bordon straightened, dusted off his breeches and ran a confident hand along the mare's mane. "I'd say a stone was lodged in the hoof and it cut things up a fair bit. It'll take some time for the swelling to go down, but God knows, she might be useless. Safe for city hacking, maybe, but no campaign horse."

"Damn." Tavington slung his arm over the mare's back and scratched a thumb-sized patch of white hide that disguised a saddle sore scar. "I'd say my luck dwindles. The Yankees have driven up prices."

"You'd do better to steal a horse," Bordon mused.

Tavington chewed on his lower lip. "If I wouldn't be hanged for it."

The two men left the stall. Tavington slid the door shut and dropped the latch back into place, shaking his numb fingers.

"There is one blessing," he noted, "I won't be on campaign for a time, at least if Howe has his say." He kicked at a clump of dirt with his scuffed boot toe.

Bordon frowned, his somewhat serious face tightening with tension. "That's why I say you're cursed, sir."

"Agreed." Tavington nodded. He leaned his back against the stall door.

It had been a rotten two days in New York, ever since Percy received news of Rall's surrender and Mr. Washington's unexpected sojourn across the Delaware. What made matters worse, however, was the manner in which the news was brought about.

Howe was noticeably furious. Percy, his deputy, had been handed the dispatches first, not him, not the rightful commander-in-chief. He took it as a gratuitous insult, of course and a breach in the chain of command. The officers who had sent the messages were threatened with court-martials, but everyone knew why they had acted so.

Howe, though a good soldier, was somewhat lazy when it came to actual campaigning. After what should have been a complete victory at Long Island, he let Washington slip away and instead retired to more idle pleasures, such as those found in the arms of his mistress.

Percy, while a right madwoman, was not so careless. The soldiers in New Jersey knew she would be up in arms and quick to come to their defense. And so they had tried to reach her first.

Pity, Tavington thought, their plan had fallen through.

Howe was sending Cornwallis with eight thousand men instead.

In turn, their commander-in-chief was snubbing Percy. Cornwallis had been set to depart to England, his baggage already having been brought onboard his ship.

No one in New York was quite pleased.

To Tavington's utter surprise, Percy took the news of her slight with considerable grace. She even spoke up for the hapless McGregor, whom Howe threatened to punish for what he termed her "outrageous ignorance of the chain of command".

Percy, however, saw that the messenger was spared.

Tavington didn't know what to make of the mess, really. He sensed that the defeat at Trenton was more of a blow to morale and less of a tactical disaster. Still, Howe was sending a clear message to Washington with eight thousand men. Meager Rebel victories would certainly come with a price.

It was a personal disappointment to Tavington at any rate. He would have much preferred a brisk winter campaign to relieve the monotony of garrison life. Also, he suddenly found the need to avoid Doctor Benton, who had dropped by Percy's quarters just yesterday to pronounce Her Madamship a "rheumatism afflicted hussy". The all too knowing glances the Doctor tossed his way were disturbing and for some reason, Tavington didn't think Percy would take the news of their brief encounter lightly.

Benton was also a different sort of woman than the common soldier lasses found in camp. She had some standing and was, apparently, a good friend of his General. Indeed, he would have to tread carefully if he was to benefit at all from their relationship. She still showed potential and certainly possessed the ability to influence Percy. But in turn, Tavington worried that she could influence his superior for the _wrong_ reasons.

Bordon was right, he decided. Fortune never dealt him a clear hand.

There was some manner of commotion by the house and Tavington looked up to see Andre-in his shirtsleeves-dashing into the stable.

"Thank God," he panted upon seeing his fellow aide and he actually clapped Tavington on the shoulder.

Bordon stepped back in surprise and saluted. "Sir."

Andre, tiresomely polite man that he was, strangely ignored him. "William," he said all in a rush, his smooth cheeks puffed up as he tried to take a deep breath, "General Percy has need of her horse at once."

Tavington sniffed airily. "That's all well and good, John, but I am no servant."

Andre ran his palm over his sweaty brow and sighed in utter impatience. "Then summon one!"

Tavington perked up, detecting the distinct tone of urgency in Andre's voice. Something was afoot and he felt much like he did when the drums sounded late at night, calling men from sleep and to arms when the enemy unexpectedly fell upon them. His limbs were as loose as water.

A servant was called and Andre breathlessly instructed the boy to bring about Percy's horse. And then, almost as an afterthought, he asked for his own.

Tavington looked Andre up and down. "Going somewhere?"

"I suppose," Andre said once he had calmed some.

"Without your coat?"

Andre cursed like Tavington had never heard before.

Bordon was still standing at attention. Andre took notice of him at last.

"Corporal, if you wouldn't mind," he said, his voice resuming that lofty, nasal quip of a commander. "I've left my coat inside…in…in, oh I think it was the bed chamber."

"Upstairs?" Tavington offered with a leer.

Andre blushed furiously, his jaw set. "Ask the maid," he finished lamely.

But it was only after Tavington had nodded approvingly that Bordon took his leave. Andre, fortunately, was too flustered to notice.

Once Bordon was gone, he sank with a grumble against the stall door, arms crossed over his chest and eyes raised to the cloud-covered sky. "I don't know what to make of this, William," he said at length.

Tavington sensed something strange in his voice, a note of aching empathy.

Andre glanced at him, obviously hoping his comrade would respond in kind.

Tavington smiled roguishly. He would not make things easy. "Make of what?"

"Julia," Andre replied. "I'm most worried."

Now this was new. Tavington tilted his head to the side. Andre had Percy placed on a high pedestal, worshipping her like some druidic idol of Boadicea's age. Never had he seemed to doubt her. And never, never had he questioned her.

Tavington was thoroughly intrigued.

"What's happened?" he asked, feigning concern for his beleaguered colleague.

The harried Andre readily took the bait.

"It's a war within a war," he confided. "Never mind the Rebels. Percy is set to battle Howe. She hates him, yes, it is quite obvious and now she's frightened. Clinton is gone. Her protector has sailed back to England."

"Her protector?" Tavington could not disguise his snort of disbelief.

Andre emitted a shuddering sigh, one that made his entire body shiver. He appeared utterly forlorn. When he finally raised his eyes to meet Tavington's, they were bleary…with tears.

"And more," he bleated.

Tavington's heart thundered within his breast. His mouth felt dry, parched as burnt wood. And he could only think back to Benton and what she had said.

_It's not Andre you need to worry about now, lad. It's General Clinton._

The uneven rhythm of boots stamping across the stable yard brought them both to attention. Percy had come out of the house and Tavington only caught a glimpse of her red coat around the corner of the barn door.

Andre blinked his eyes rapidly and then resumed his casual, dignified bearing. But he did cast Tavington a final look, a glance of warning.

His eyes begged for Tavington's silence and inexplicably, his rival complied.

Percy came into the stable.

Tavington had never been impressed by her appearance before. She dressed neatly, plainly, never one to look flashy in her uniform, boots and tricorn. A simple wig always covered her hair, one row of curls sitting comfortably above her small ears. Nor was she a particular beauty, with a drawn face, high forehead and a nose that was both long and flat. Her eyes were pinpricks in pale flesh.

But by God, she was damned majestic now.

Her uniform had been altered, he realized. More gold braiding added, new buttons. The crimson sash about her waist was crisp and clean. Her waistcoat had been meticulously laundered. Her gorget had of late been polished.

And in her hat, ha, Tavington had to laugh to himself, she wore a plume in it. It was a green feather, flamboyant, out of character, but a Christmas gift from Andre, nonetheless.

He understood then, more so than before, that Percy intended to go to war.

She smiled at them both just as the stable boy brought about the horses.

"Ah, excellent timing," her voice sounded clipped, still high, but direct and lacking her certain childish trill. "Captain Tavington, where is your horse?"

"She pulled up lame last week," he answered without thinking.

Percy glanced at Andre. "It was generous of you to lend him your animal. Come, I mean to visit General Howe."

With some difficulty, she mounted, groping for the reins as they slid through her wounded hand.

Tavington, without a word, followed suit and climbed onto Andre's horse.

Poor Andre was standing in the yard as they moved out and Tavington couldn't resist looking over his shoulder at the perplexed man.

Bordon came into the yard just as they left, helpfully handing Andre his now unneeded coat.

* * *

**Author's Note: **Historically, Cornwallis was sent to deal with Americans after the British defeat at Trenton. He was set to depart for England for winter leave (his baggage already having been brought on ship, as mentioned) when Howe dispatched him to New Jersey with eight thousand men. 

Since Clinton had already left for England, Cornwallis was Howe's deputy in the colonies. However, in this fic, the chain of command runs Howe, Clinton, Percy, Cornwallis, therefore, Percy would technically be Howe's deputy.

Obviously, Percy did not receive the news of the defeat at Trenton before Howe. But historically, Howe did have a tendency to be lazy when it came to pursuing Washington. His mistress was largely to blame and a little ribald verse of the day ran, _Sir William he, as sung as a flea, all this time a-snoring. Nor dreamt he of harm as he lay warm, in bed, with Mrs. Loring._

Thanks for reading! As always, I would love to hear from you, so please review. Have a wonderful week!


	17. Percy's Legion

**Author's Note: **There is some brief, strong language at the end of this chapter. I actually hesitated when putting it in, but as the characters are all cranky, old soldiers, I think it was warranted. I would like to thank everyone who read the last chapter and those that reviewed, **LazyChestnut **and **Scribe Of All Trades**. And special thanks goes out to **Scribe, **for letting me know about several pesky tense changes in the last installment. Thanks all! I hope you enjoy!

**Disclaimer: **I claim no ownership of the Patriot. However, I do own all OCs mentioned herein including Major General Julia Percy.

**Percy's Legion**

Percy did not speak at all on the way to Beekman Manor and Tavington himself didn't dare provoke her. Although, as it was, Her Madamship did not seem to be in her usual mauling mood. No, she looked…sleepy. Tavington watched her slyly as she swayed in the saddle, eyes heavy, blinking. And then she yawned, patted her mouth with a gloved fingers and trotted on.

Mud tainted slush churned about their horses' hooves.

Tavington dropped his gaze and focused on the rutted road ahead. The winter weather had done little to improve the streets of New York, already scarred and singed from last summer's melee. Trenches remained, now brimming with stagnant snow and ice. And manure was the least offensive smell the city had to offer.

It all reminded him of London a fair bit, even though Manhattan was certainly more rustic and less grand.

Like a reduced lady, he thought, like Percy.

Again, he indulged his curiosity and glanced at her. There she rode beside him, wealthy and surprisingly influential. Hair powdered, uniform spit polish. That damned plume quivering in her tricorn. But by God, she looked worn. Tired.

Her mutilated hand, he suspected, was not the only scar she bore.

Tavington wasn't one to dissect her intricacies though. No, he'd leave that to the pouting Andre. Hmm, now there was another shock. What had caused Johnny's unceremonious topple from his throne?

Had he quarreled with Percy again?

Tavington doubted that. Andre knew when to close his little mouth, despite his tendency towards haughtiness.

Percy, he decided, was simply unpredictable. Or else she was succumbing to his charms.

Tavington, although an eternally confident man, sincerely doubted that, especially when Her Madamship's gaze snapped back to him.

"Lazy posture!" she chided.

Tavington's back became ramrod straight. "I've been so long out of the saddle, madam."

"Hmm," Percy hummed through her nose, "haven't we all. I need your attention now though, yes, I expect it."

"You have it, madam."

She nodded in rhythm with the thoughtful grind of her horse's hooves over an icy patch.

The sun began to grow heavy in the sky, a weak, watery orb of pale yellow that stretched closer to the cloudy horizon. Together, they watched it dip down behind a jagged patch of firs that marred the moody sky with green teeth.

Twilight descended.

Percy sighed.

They continued on in absolute silence until Howe's residence drew nigh. And then, unexpectedly, Percy bade him dismount.

Tavington hesitated for a fraction of an instant. The mud threatened to suck the boots from his feet.

Percy, inexplicably, smiled. "Think I'm touched in the head, do you? Well, you're guess would be sure…on most occasions. I should like us to look like the Spartans at Thermopylae, understand? Let Howe see what real soldiers are about."

Tavington did not argue, although her theory seemed a little contradictory to him. There Percy stood in her finest regalia up to her calves in filth.

They struggled their way to Beekman Manor. The house did not appear quite so cheery now. Against the fading sky it looked bleak and an involuntary shiver traced Tavington's spine.

Uncommon sympathy twisted Percy's lips. "Courage, Captain. Don't you trust me?"

Tavington did not respond immediately, which made Percy stop right in the middle of the road and stare.

"Captain Tavington, do you trust me?"

"I have no reason not to, madam," he replied at length.

Percy paled.

"I'll not dally about the matter," she said, looping the long reins lazily over her forearm. "When I assigned you to my staff, I expected fealty."

"I am no serf." Tavington was stunned by his response.

And apparently, so was Percy.

"My dear Captain," she breathed, hand now flat upon her heaving breast, "I would be shamed if such a notion ever entered your head. Has it?"

Good God, what was this? For the first time in many years, Tavington felt nauseous panic beat against his throbbing heart. Percy was staring at him…oddly.

Suddenly he regretted his night with Benton. It soured things now, when he should feel free to amorously express himself and garner Percy's complete and undivided attention. But the wily Doctor could dampen the occasion. Tavington wondered if he risked enraging both women.

Ah, what the hell?

"To be entirely honest, madam," he began, mouth treacherously dry, "I have found my position in your family to be somewhat….unrewarding."

Percy looked horrified, her shrewd eyes now wide. "Christ! Tavington! Jesus Christ!" And then, her arms were around his neck, squeezing, pulling him into an awkward embrace. "God above, I need you, William," she whispered in his ear. "You're still my protégé, eh? Yes?"

Tavington swallowed, his face uncomfortably flushed. Having a vulnerable Percy in his arms was not as pleasing as he imagined. She was a rather needy woman, in fact and too flighty. One could never tell with her. Did he dare take the lead now?

His body was certainly keen on the idea.

Gently, he tried to push her away. "I find that difficult to believe, madam," he said vacantly. "After all….hmmm…Captain Andre?"

Percy's brows shot up her forehead.

Tavington realized the moment of intimacy was gone.

"Andre has his place on my staff," she said firmly, "and you have yours. But I must know, Tavington, do I have your exclusive loyalty?"

The question, he sensed, was more delicate than its casual phrasing. And he did think hard on it. Percy wanted a truthful answer. He would give it to her.

"Yes, madam," he said at length, realizing that in the end, he probably could do no better, "you have my loyalty."

"In exchange, I grant you my favor," she replied airily, sounding like some lofty feudal lady bestowing a token on her favorite knight. "And do not doubt its worth, Captain. Laurels are not as material as one might imagine."

They left it at that and reached Beekman Manor just as night fell. A livery clad groom took their horses around back. Tavington watched as the animals disappeared into the dusky shadows behind the house, flanks heaving, tails flicking like lace-lined fans.

Percy poked him in the ribs. "Your _attention_, Captain."

"Entirely yours, madam," he replied as they were led within.

A maidservant lit the candles perched in wall sconces in the corridor. The house smelled like stale perfume and wig powder.

Percy growled as a young Negro boy tried to wipe her boots with a rag.

"Off!" She kicked at his shoulder.

The boy ducked away and retreated.

They were left quite alone for several minutes. Percy stayed deathly still, her face flashing scarlet in the brilliant candlelight. From upstairs sounded the chime of a harpsichord. A woman sang, her voice high, false.

Then all noise ceased abruptly, save for a volatile fluttering of voices that floated down into the corridor.

Tavington saw Percy lower her head.

"Dear God," she muttered.

They were made to wait even longer then, until an aide-de-camp found them in the hall and politely escorted Her Madamship to the parlor. She was offered tea. Tavington was largely ignored.

"General Howe shall be along presently," the aide informed Percy.

The commander-in-chief did not come for an hour. In the meantime, Percy shuffled her muddy feet on his good carpet. She had just scraped the last of the dirt off when lazy footsteps sounded in the hall.

"Julia!" The booming voice at the parlor door surprised them both.

Percy jumped, as did Tavington, and they both turned.

Howe swept into the room. "What's all this about now, my dear madam? You look half-famished, like death-warmed over, I should say. Have you had any supper?"

Percy's lip curled. "I'm not quite hungry."

"Nonsense!" Howe kissed her hand and displaying his casual charm, even nodded at Tavington. "Your aide is washed white from hunger. Shall we dine?"

"I did not come here to eat, sir." Percy had already seated herself in the large, green chair by the hearth.

Howe, playing the gentleman, sat on the settee across from her. "You'll excuse my tardiness, I hope?"

Percy did not reply.

Tavington thought he would suffocate from the tension. Certainly, the commander-in-chief smiled and laughed and looked lively, but there was something deeper here, an excruciatingly obvious dislike that stemmed from years of insult.

Percy was aware of it and she did not wear the mask of propriety that Howe donned. No, she frowned and sat stiffly, picking at her nails with a look of utter disdain.

She wasn't about games, Tavington realized. And yet she was calm, collected, confident.

Her Madamship had the uncanny ability to control herself on certain occasions and she was all more the mad for it.

"Some wine will make up for my lack of punctuality." Howe winked at her and called for the libation along with tray of fatty beef, fresh biscuits and boiled potatoes. Percy refused it all.

"My time is short," she said. "I have business with you."

Howe downed his wine quickly, tipping back the goblet with a fluid flick of his wrist. "Oh? You should have sent along a note first. I would have seen you earlier."

"I meant to come now."

"Always unpredictable you are, madam, always wild-"

"You are sending Cornwallis in my stead to New Jersey. I am insulted and I mean to make it known."

Annoyance pulled at Howe's plump cheeks. He called for more wine. "I suspected such."

There was a beat of silence. Tavington shifted ever so slightly, his feet beginning to ache in his wet boots. The potatoes smelled heavenly and true to Howe's guess, he had not eaten since breakfast.

But such was the life of an aide-de-camp, one of standing and waiting and being ordered about like some witless fool.

He swallowed the mouthful of saliva pressing against his lips and tried to concentrate on their conversation instead.

"If you mean to throw a fit, then do it now." Howe waved about his long arm. "Though I assure you, I shall remain unmoved."

"I'm not a weak-minded child."

"One could argue the point."

"You're a damned fool."

"Profanity!" Howe laughed at her jab. "Think you're clever?"

Percy folded her fingers together on her lap. "Exceedingly so. I hope you remember, sir, that I am your deputy, now that General Clinton is England bound."

"Yes, of course." Howe leaned back on the settee, his round stomach pushing against the buttons of his waistcoat. "Do you think I am so careless?"

"You are," Percy said lightly, a sneer lifting her lips. Her fingers crawled forward onto her knees. "You sit here, sir, in the company of your mistress while-"

"And you've fucked each and every one of your aide-de-camps." Howe shrugged. "If we are to compare debaucheries, Julia, then I should think we are about even." He paused, glancing at Tavington.

Tavington retained his composure, despite the sudden heat of the argument. Percy's licentious behavior did not elicit much of reaction from him anymore.

Her Madamship, however, decided to play her righteous card. "You speak to a lady so?" she accused Howe, eyes hard and cold with pure indignation. "Clinton's absence has indeed loosened your tongue."

"Clinton." Howe's sardonic smile was somehow frightening. "A wonder that he has little to say about the matter, though I hear _he_ hastaken a mistress of his own. Does that trouble you, I wonder?"

Tavington sensed that some manner of line had been crossed from the way Percy sighed. She blinked, shook her head and swallowed, the veins in her neck tensing and twitching. It was several minutes before she recovered.

Tavington suddenly felt uncomfortable and he moved, stiff knees bending. The heels of his boots pressed dirty prints into the floor. It was strange, he thought, that Howe and Percy hated each other so. Both had withheld little, letting the daggers puncture private wounds. He had never witnessed an inferior speak so brazenly to a commanding officer, though then again, Percy, Clinton, Cornwallis and Howe considered themselves colleagues, not prisoners of authority.

Tavington envied them and wished he could reach such a point in his career.

Howe stirred on the settee. "Madam is silent. Why?"

But Percy shook her head, determination tightening her face, pursing her lips and making her perilous in appearance.

"You will send me to New Jersey, sir," she said slowly. "Or I will resign from my command."

Tavington took an involuntary step forward, distracting Howe for an instant.

Percy was quick to turn around and glare at him.

And despite his confusion, Tavington remembered their conversation on the road.

_Captain Tavington, do you trust me?_

Yes. He had vowed it so. With great difficulty, he stilled himself.

Howe returned his attention to Percy. "You never would."

"Has our long acquaintance taught you nothing?" Percy replied. "For I think it should look curious indeed, with General Clinton in England asking to resign and me at his heels."

Howe was at a complete loss. Defeated not by the Rebels, but by his own comrade.

Percy gazed at him coldly. "It is my express desire to be appeased, sir."

His reluctance was palpable, but a nod bowed his head. "I'll give you one regiment, the 23rd Fusiliers."

Percy stood and let her arms unfurl, her head thrown back with triumph etched in every fiber of her being. "With a single company, sir, I might fetch the utmost glory," she said. "With a single regiment, I shall work miracles."

* * *

**Author's Note: **In case you're wondering about the informal tone, both Howe and Percy go way back and yes, they absolutely hate each other. 

Forgive me, but I must ask this question again. Does anyone get where I'm going with the whole Clinton thing? I feel like I'm being too obvious here, but I know I have a tendency to be cryptic at the same time and I wouldn't want to confuse any of my my dear readers.

According to my research, Howe did take up residence at Beekman Manor whilst in New York. And also, according to what I've read, the 23rd Royal Welch Fusiliers did not participate in the follow-up action after the Battle of Trenton. They were, however, garrisoned in New York City. Percy leading them to New Jersey, then, is utter fiction.

Lastly, I've posted some pictures on my LJ of the characters, historical and fictional, featured in this story. You can find the links on my profile.

Thanks so much for reading! As always, I would love feedback, so please, take the time to leave a short review. Have a great week!


	18. Restless

**Author's Note: **Alright, I have a confession to make. I absolutely hate this chapter. It's a transition chapter, the sole purpose of which is to get the characters from one place to another, in this case, from New York to Princeton. If I could have, I would have skipped it entirely and jumped straight into the action. Unfortunately, things wouldn't make sense then and I would hate to confuse any of my readers. So I apologize for this boring installment and I promise the next one will be filled with action as we head into the battle of Princeton.

I would like to thank everyone who took the time to read the last chapter and those that reviewed, **LazyChestnut**, **Cid62**, **Mona Lisa23** and** Scribe Of All Trades**. And I would especially like to thank **Mona Lisa23**, who helped me tremendously and gave me the inspiration to write this chapter. I hope you enjoy!

**Disclaimer: **I claim no ownership of the Patriot. However, I do own all OCs mentioned herein including Major General Julia Percy and Major Beatrice Covenly.

**Restless**

_January 3, 1777, a few miles outside of Princeton, New Jersey_

Percy was in pain. Her arms ached, but not half so much as her legs which were stretched out along a pitted bench. The meager fire in the hearth did little to warm the New Jersey tavern and she didn't dare doze off, mired as she was in this Rebel country.

For five days she had quick-marched the crack regiment of the 23rd Royal Welch Fusiliers down to meet Cornwallis, stopping now on the outskirts of Kingston. Her force was fatigued, her few guns cumbersome and every officer clamored for rest. Reluctantly, Percy gave in, turning away from the road and pitching camp under a cluster of firs where the snow was less and the wind was repelled by a low hill. She found quarters for her staff in a nearby tavern.

It was before dawn now and a darker eve she had never known, with the moon ducking behind some ebony cloud and the stars not bothering to show. And all one could smell was the rotten gunpowder rushing up the road with every fitful breeze. There had been some manner of skirmish this day. She felt it in her bones, but did not send scouts to find out the truth of things. They were only a little ways from Princeton, as it was.

Cornwallis could hold his own against the Rebels, that she knew. The man wasn't quite as lazy as Howe and had been to school in Italy, trained in the ways of war instead of idleness. She trusted him to keep Washington at bay.

Percy shifted on the bench, her arms sprawled over the rough table in the tavern common room. She had a mug of ale cradled between her palms and the haziness of intoxication promised a relief from her rheumatic pains. But she would not indulge her vices now. Her mind, though laboring under the fog of exhaustion, needed to be sharp.

Percy was certain, so very certain that she would face the enemy on the morrow.

All her companions had gone to bed and she heard them snoring upstairs, piled together in narrow beds with moldy quilts and rotten, damp pillows. Feeling uncommonly generous, she gave Covenly her own bed and stayed downstairs. Sleep would not visit her this night.

Percy was decidedly jittery and her thigh muscles cramped, protesting against the torturous hours spent in the saddle. At thirty-five, she felt like an old woman. Years of rough, loose living had wearied her. And campaigns were always a trial for the body.

It would have been much easier, of course, to stay behind in New York and let Cornwallis mop up the mess in Trenton. But Percy knew the benefits of constant vigilance. With Harry in England the pack was thinned, leaving only Howe and Cornwallis and a bevy of lesser generals, Leslie and Grey among them. Percy saw this as her chance to stand out. For years, her career had climbed up the steep hill to success and she would not have it plateau.

No, now was the time. She felt it in the air, spiced with tension and promises of glory. That's all she had ever wanted, really, and it was a selfish desire. But Percy could not deny any indulgence.

She envied those young lads and lasses, Andre and Covenly and Tavington. Fresh, free and fair. Ah, for the days when she had been a youth, a silly, chit of a girl on her first campaign in Germany. Harry had been young then too and they had both been foolish, tempted…

A sound on the stairs snagged her attention. Half-heartedly, she took a sip of the cloudy ale and grimaced as it burned her raw throat.

Covenly entered the common room, her uniform rumpled.

"It's not yet dawn," Percy whispered and she nodded at the fireplace where Tavington dozed in a cramped chair with naught but his coat for a blanket.

Covenly tip-toed over to her friend. "I couldn't sleep. They snore." She rolled her grey eyes and glanced upstairs.

Percy cradled her hand in her palm. "Have a drink?" she offered.

"You know I don't." Covenly slid onto the bench next to her and folded her hands neatly. "Julia, I'm worried."

Percy raised a brow. Beatrice wasn't one to speak so casually, being a pillar of propriety, grace and reason.

"You think I should have sent scouts ahead?" she asked, annoyance nestling like a burr in her chest. "I live for the element of surprise, surely you know that."

Covenly shook her head, her light brown curls dusting her cheeks and casting shadows over her pensive face. "I've never judged you."

Percy stifled a chuckle against her hand.

Tavington stirred.

"Out with it," Percy demanded. "I'll not have it hanging over my head like the sword of Damocles."

"You know how greatly I respect you-"

"God damn it woman, can you not speak plain?"

"It's Andre," Covenly blurted.

Percy's face fell and a hidden worry leapt to life. She stood abruptly. "What have you to say?"

"Only that you should be careful."

"Am I not always?"

"He's ambitious," Covenly noted.

"As is Tavington."

Both Percy and Covenly glanced at the sleeping man. He did not wake.

"Then why did you leave him in New York?" Covenly asked, her eyes earnest, wide, yet frightened.

Percy listened to the hollow rush of her breath as it filled her lungs. Here her heart clenched, sending worrisome pain spiraling throughout her chest. Johnny had stayed behind in New York, she had ordered it so. After a while, she tired of his coddling, caring presence. She wanted to be alone again. She wanted, no, she _needed_ to be free.

But Covenly need not know that.

"Julia?" Covenly prodded.

But the sound of guns stopped them, shredding the early morning air like a giant's roar.

Percy hurried around the long table and Covenly followed, rushing, tripping, falling out of the tavern common room. The door gave way to her weight and they stumbled out onto the icy road. Soldiers gathered along by the wayside, sleepy sentries with their muskets perched at jaunty angles on their shoulders.

Mist clotted the air with uncertainty and Percy panted, her chest now aching as she struggled to catch her breath and gather her wits.

Officers peeked their heads out of the tavern's upper story windows. Tavington, now roused from his nap, came to the door.

Again they heard it, a volley, fired in unison. The sharp snap of musketry ruptured the stillness. And drums, eager, enthusiastic drums pounded out the rustic tune to "Yankee Doodle".

Percy inhaled, her every nerve ablaze.

This then, was what she lived for.

Calmly, she turned to Covenly and ordered the breaking of camp.

* * *

**Author's Note: **Well, you made it through the chapter, now I just have a few notes. 

On January 2, 1777, Cornwallis arrived at Trenton with a fighting force of 6,000. The rest of his men were spread out in Maidenhead under the command of General Leslie and in Princeton under Lieutenant Colonel Mawhood. Cornwallis and Washington battled each other across the Assunpink Creek in Trenton that day and after a fierce fight, Cornwallis withdrew and retired for the night.

While Cornwallis and his men were sleeping, Washington gathered his men and slipped around the British. He kept a few men in camp to make noise and tend the fires, successfully tricking the British as he marched up north. The advance brigade under General Mercer met a British force of 800 men under Lt. Colonel Mawhood as he marched down from Princeton to join Cornwallis in Trenton. A battle developed in a nearby orchard. Percy therefore heard the gunfire coming up the road from Princeton. The next chapter will start in the orchard where the Americans are currently skirmishing and will feature a special guest character.

Percy made a huge, huge mistake in this chapter by not sending scouts ahead. Such a blunder is the result of her sheer arrogance and she assumes that the British still hold Princeton. Even though she is a good general, she is certainly not infallible. However, her error just may pay off.

Since the next five or so chapters will be shorter, some of them drabble length (covering the battle of Princeton) I will be updating more frequently than I usually do.

Thanks so much for reading. I would love to hear your thoughts, please take the time to review. Have a great week!


	19. Eye For An Eye

**Author's Note: **I don't think I have paid nearly enough attention to the Americans/Patriots in this story and I'm pleased to finally feature them in this chapter. As I mentioned in the last installment, this chapter picks up just outside of Princeton, when the advance guard of Americans under General Mercer engaged the British under Colonel Mawhood. I would like to thank everyone who read the last chapter and those that reviewed, **LazyChestnut **and **Scribe Of All Trades**. I would also like to thank **Scribe** who is now betaing this fic for me. Thanks for catching all my typos. I hope you enjoy.

**Disclaimer: **I claim no ownership of the Patriot. However, I do own all OCs mentioned herein.

**Eye For An Eye**

_January 3, 1777, a few miles outside of Princeton, New Jersey_

There was something in the perfect cadence of boot on stone that roused the soldiers. It was a drum, an earthy, primal call that made the ache in their legs subside. Muskets bounced on stooped shoulders. Morning rose over New Jersey in a haze of grey and smoky mist. Snow obscured most of the thin paths snaking away from the main road. But General Mercer's advance brigade moved in perfect unity despite the uncertainty and exhaustion plaguing each soldier.

Private Gabriel Martin marched next to such a drowsy woman. She was much older than him, of course, with matted, mangy hair and only a few teeth. But by God, he had seen her fight like a hellcat when the lobsters came at them. Not a one of King George's prettified officers had the stomach to match her.

It gave him some comfort then, to think that he was in good company. Plain company, rough company, but good company. Honorable men and women, bedraggled soldiers with worn shoes and uniforms and gaping tears that looked like old scars. His own blue jacket was patched along the elbows and just the other day, he had torn a strip from his shirt to wrap about his numb toes.

And gloves, ha, one could not fathom such a luxury. His fingers fair froze to the butt of his scavenged musket. Clumsily, he felt for his cartridges, assuring himself that the powder remained dry.

God had blessed them with cold yet waterless night. Mud-filled ruts, once so treacherous to march over, were now solid ice. Sure, his cheeks burned like the frost-fed fires of Hell, but the army would make it to Princeton in time, or so Colonel Bates assured them.

She was riding up ahead she was, tucked between General Mercer and Colonel Haslet. Their stony, stubborn silence was unnerving, but each soldier had been warned. No noise must be made, no sign must be given to the British of their nightly maneuvers. Old Cornwallis, the dog, was back in Trenton snoring away.

Not General Washington though. And not the Continental Army.

Gabriel felt a flash of pride, like the spark in the powder pan, warm his chest. But he was frightened, yes and so were the soldiers about him. Faces drawn, lips sealed, all moving in the same, jerky, hesitant rhythm. They were simple folk, tired, hungry, lean folk who would be sated by one thing only.

Freedom.

It seemed like a dream now. Far-off, vague like the wisps of fog floating over the dawn fields. But Gabriel tried to keep it in mind, tried to remember every day what he was fighting for.

The trees by the wayside began to thin and he raised his eyes, saw the sun rise, slow, not warm, not friendly. They were coming to the main road and then it was only a short way to Princeton.

He knew there was danger behind and beyond, several crack British regiments just waiting to squeeze the life out of them. A chilled sweat dripped down his spine. Their column slowed. A stone of worry settled in his gut and bounced with every step, threatening to bring up yesterday's meager breakfast.

Gabriel swallowed away the bitter bile.

The main road was just ahead.

Everything stopped.

Gabriel's heart leapt into his mouth and remained there for a beat or two. He saw Colonel Bates up by the front and Mercer, head bowed. A whisper punctured the stillness.

There was another noise then, a steady, stamping sound that slithered towards them. Closer, closer it came, crawling up into their little woodland alcove where the advance force hid.

Morbid curiosity brought Gabriel up onto his tiptoes. He craned his neck and tried to catch a glimpse of the highway over dozens of heads.

A muted stream of red slipped by.

"Lobsters?" the old hag next to him whispered.

Gabriel tried to find his voice, but managed only a nod.

His companion discharged a mouthful of brownish spit onto the ice.

Once more, Gabriel felt for his cartridges, thinking of Thomas, home at the lazy, listless farm with his toy soldiers.

But this was war, yes, hiding in some frigid backwoods with your limbs half-frozen and the enemy only a breath away.

He saw Colonel Bates swivel in the saddle.

"Prime and load."

The order was given and received. Fumbling hands fiddled with their muskets. Gabriel worked as quickly as he could, tearing the paper, pouring the powder into the pan. The musket ball rolled about in his palm like a child's marble.

They didn't have much time to prepare. Mercer drew his sword at the head of the column. Bates and Haslet did likewise.

Gabriel shut his eyes for a instant, snapping them open only when their entire force sprang forward onto the road and straight into the oncoming British.

Chaos. Yelps and shocked screams pounded in his ears. He saw men fall, some trampled. Panicked grenadiers tried to withdraw, tripping, smashing into one another as they took cover.

Muskets sounded, the blast spewing rotten powder and bullets.

Gabriel did not have time to think. Bates's voice rang out of over the line.

"Take aim! Fire!"

He stepped over a howling redcoat, a lad grabbing at his wounded, bloody leg. Raising his musket to eye level, he spied a British officer on horseback.

Aim small, miss small.

The report of his shot rumbled in his chest, the musket jumping back and slamming into his shoulder.

The officer fell. He saw her mouth opened in a frantic scream as the ball shattered her breast. Head jerking, her hat was dislodged and revealed a beautiful plait of auburn hair.

Gabriel did not see her hit the ground. Sheer horror blinded him. God, he had killed a woman, a mother perhaps.

And beside him, his weathered companion collapsed, a neat hole planted in the middle of her forehead.

Gabriel choked on a hate-filled sob and reloaded his musket.

* * *

**Author's Note: **No long notes this time around. General Mercer and Colonel Haslet are historical figures. Colonel Bates is not. 

Thanks for reading! Please take the time to review, I would love to hear from you. And Happy St. Patrick's Day from this (mostly) Irish lass.


	20. Indulgence

**Author's Note: **Ack, another transition chapter! And I still hate them, even though **Scribe **assures me they're absolutely necessary. We're back with Tavington and Percy in this installment, though the next one will pick up where we left off with Gabriel. I would like to thank all my wonderful readers and those that took the time to review, **Scribe Of All Trades**, **LazyChestnut**, **SpacePotato** and **Mona Lisa23**. I would also especially like to thank **Scribe **for betaing. I hope you enjoy!

**Disclaimer: **I claim no ownership of the Patriot. However, I do own all OCs mentioned herein including Major General Julia Percy and Major Beatrice Covenly.

**Indulgence**

A skeletal shadow of a marching column formed on the road to Princeton. Tavington himself had never beheld such a commotion, a commotion meant to instill order, nonetheless. Officers were dashing along by the wayside, dead grass and muck slowing their steps as each man, woman and child of the regiment was shoved into formation. Threats rode thick on the pungent air. Stubborn soldiers were knocked over the head with pistol butts or the scabbard-covered ends of swords. And no one seemed able to make sense of the panic.

Except for Percy, that is.

She had already mounted up on her horse, cursing the cold and squirming about in the saddle with a veteran's ill humor. Her Madamship trotted along the lines and with her short legs, she kicked at her soldiers, screamed and shrieked that she would shoot them all dead were they not in fighting order as she wished.

Her bullying was enough to shake the last of sleep from Tavington and somehow, through the utter anarchy, he found his borrowed horse and climbed up. His sudden appearance seemed as a beacon and other officers drifted towards him, all tense, all frightened and all asking the most inane questions he had ever heard.

"Has word been sent to Lord Cornwallis?"

"It's the Rebels, by God, they mean to have us back in New York before the day is out!"

"Why did Percy not send out scouts? She's a blithering fool, a damned, blithering fool!"

Even sensible Covenly could not wade through the mess, though she did force her horse over to Tavington's side and together, they formed an awkward pair behind the raging Percy.

And all the while, the guns sounded from somewhere out of the morning mist.

Tavington tried to gather himself, but the promise of battle made him wild. He felt like a hunting hound, one that cannot be called to heel when the fox lies hurt and bleeding just a yard away.

He shortened his reins and then loosened them, stood in his stirrups and then dropped back down into the saddle. The wind was wild, rising, running, carrying with it the scent of powder, rotten though it was, along with shrill echoes of musketry.

Percy alone remained calm.

She took her damned time too, would not have the regiment march until things were as she commanded and being a wretched perfectionist, she made them wait.

Tavington felt the sudden urge to throttle her, believing that she had indeed gone mad for torturing them so. The Rebels were here, his battle eager intuition told him so. And yet they squandered every precious second.

At last, when his face was flushed from the delay, his hot breath streaking out like a dragon's, Percy came to him.

The regiment had been formed up neatly and the soldiers were still, the officers parading along the column, restrained, refined, but not relaxed.

Percy trotted her horse once down the road, her bevy of staff officers keen to keep up. And then she turned, her head thrust back, nostril's quivering as she dissected the moist scents floating along the fields. Finally, her finger twitched and Tavington knew she called him.

A smile breached Percy's stoicism as she stared at him with exacting eyes.

Tavington pulled his prancing horse up by her side and leaned close, smelling the sweat that clung to her stale uniform.

"Take a patrol," she said in a voice that was a whisper, but pierced his heart still, "and go to Princeton. Find out the truth of things. I'll meet you along the way."

It was a daring move. Percy was willing to walk straight to hell and back…blindfolded.

"We cannot wait, I fear," she said, just as calmly as if she had been asking him for a lump of sugar for her tea. "And don't bother with prisoners, should you come upon them."

As he drew away, Tavington witnessed a slight crinkle in her left eye, a wink. She knew he wanted to kill and was indulging him.

Tavington would happily obey her.

He took with him a handful of cavalry that had been sent as Percy's guard and with them, rode unheedingly into musket fire.

* * *

**Author's Note: **Yes, I know, another short chapter, but there is much more action to come. Thanks for reading! Please take the time to review. I would love to hear from you.


	21. The Battle of Princeton

**Author's Note: **Hello all! I'm back with a mostly action-packed chapter. At last, we finally get to the battle! I certainly took my time building up to it, didn't I? I'm such a hopeless procrastinator. Anyway, I would like to sincerely thank all of my readers and those that reviewed the last chapter, **SpacePotato**, **LazyChestnut**, **Scribe Of All Trades** and **Mona Lisa23**. And I would like to especially thank my amazing, wonderful, dedicated beta, **Scribe** for getting this chapter to me despite all the stress in her life. Thanks a million! As for the rest of you, I do hope you enjoy.

**Disclaimer: **I claim no ownership of the Patriot or its characters. However, I do own all OCs mentioned within including Colonel Catherine Bates.

**The Battle of Princeton**

Gabriel Martin flung up his arm and wiped a sticky stream of sweat from his brow. His musket slipped, sliding forward in his hands as he groped for yet another cartridge. Flakes of powder blackened his mouth and made his tongue taste like ash. Around his feet, the snow was thickened with mud.

The steadying beat of a drum slowed his motions and he struggled to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with the men next him, fighting at every moment the churning panic in his stomach.

After the initial assault, the British had formed up their soldiers in a nearby orchard and with one single, well-formed charge, driven the Continentals out. General Mercer, their commander, had been mortally wounded and then viciously bayoneted. Colonel Haslet, his replacement, was shot in the head and fell dead upon the slush.

Colonel Catherine Bates took charge of the line then, under the fire of two light British guns. She tried her best to rally them, cantering from one flank to another, her coat falling open and revealing a heaving chest.

Gabriel didn't think she looked much like a warrior now, the fear in her eyes too great to be trusted in. He felt his own legs weakening and soldiers began to flee. Bates hollered, her strained voice ricocheting weakly over the musketry and general chaos.

Finally, she pulled her horse straight up in front of the line and in a wild frenzy, smacked the flat of her sword against her breast.

This primal gesture shot new warmth into Gabriel and he saw her there, alone, with the great flashes of gun fire at her back.

He stepped forward through the muck and reloaded.

She raised her sword. "Make ready! Take aim! Fire!"

His gun jumped back. An uneven volley streaked towards the now confident British. But more Continentals were surging forward, filling out the line.

"Make ready! Take aim! Fire!"

A great barrage seemed to shake British bravado. Colonel Bates urged them on with cries that clenched guts and set jaws and reminded them just why they were scrounging like dogs in this muddy New Jersey orchard.

Tired as he was, Gabriel followed the rhythm of battle, now ingrained in him like any old instinct. He reloaded and fired and advanced a step when the British fell back. Reload, fire, advance. Reload, fire, advance.

A sudden ripple ran through the line that His Excellency, General Washington, was nigh. Gabriel knew well enough not to believe such myths, but sure enough, the man himself was soon at hand, rallying the troops like Colonel Bates.

General Cadwalader arrived soon thereafter with reinforcements.

With a pleasant and shocking jolt, Gabriel realized they had enough to take the orchard and drive the British away for good. His fingers ached, protesting as he reached for yet another cartridge. The ramrod dug into his palm and blisters burst open, spilling blood over his hands. Gabriel gnawed at his lower lip, cringing inwardly as the British guns belched more lead at them.

A man a few feet away gasped, then buckled. Gabriel's head snapped to the side.

"Don't worry, boy," the wounded soldier muttered. He probed at his shoulder and pulled away bloody fingers. "It's just a small one."

In a moment, he was on his feet again, musket reloaded.

Gabriel suddenly became aware, with nagging worry, that he was running low on powder. A woman to his right offered to top him off, but wasn't able to pass him her horn before the British were pounding towards them.

Unable to stop himself, Gabriel took a step back as a redcoat flung himself straight into the line. The man was burly, fat, really, and his weight nearly brought Gabriel to the ground.

Bayonets flashed, the sharp-edges slick with frost and in some cases, gore.

Gabriel grunted and with the strength in his farmer's shoulders, managed to push the man off. A Continental officer drove his sword through the lobster's leg and sent the man howling and limping lamely back across the orchard. He never made it back to his company though, as a keen-eyed American took a shot and downed him once and for all.

The fresh swell of Cadwalader's men and the newly arrived General Sullivan helped them hurl the British back, but yet another desperate charge was employed.

This time, Gabriel could not so easily repel his attackers. The men and women stampeding over the Continental line were wild with fear, animals, trapped in some tight hutch and frantic to escape.

Gabriel saw his fellows knocked to the ground, the woman who had lent him powder stumbling as a tall redcoat slammed into her. The two grappled for a moment and Gabriel forced his way forward and with the butt of his musket, he rapped the redcoat over the neck.

To his surprise, the lobster was a woman, a skinny, skeletal thing that whimpered as she fell and fought to get to her knees.

Gabriel reeled, startled by her bloody, broken nose and terrified, blue eyes.

Indecision raged within him and he thought back to those genteel visits to Charleston, where ladies were bowed to and flattered and courted.

But now this woman before him was squirming in the mud, trying to gain her feet and run for her life.

Gabriel lowered his musket.

The redcoat spotted her opportunity and in a flash, she was driving at him with a bayonet and her face was now gaunt, now hungry, now lusting.

He hadn't the time to fend her off.

Yet then she stopped, the bayonet falling, only slicing Gabriel's cheek. She staggered as the Continental behind her sliced her leg open with a dagger and then finished the job by slitting her neck.

Gabriel stared at the female Patriot, slack-jawed.

She nodded tersely. "You can't trust these bitches."

By the time they both recovered, the British had already fled the orchard and were now flying down the road to Trenton. Gabriel sank down, unmindful of the thawing snow and shards of melting ice.

Pain seared through his lungs and his breath came fast, spurting out through his partially parted lips. Colonel Bates was once more riding along the line, assessing her losses in the quick, calculating way only officers can.

She dipped her head at Gabriel as she passed and he saluted weakly. The smoke from freshly fired guns was ceding.

The woman who had killed the redcoat smacked him on the shoulder.

"See that there," she said and extended one long arm, pointing to a not so distant cluster of trees.

Gabriel squinted and saw, within the grey, bare branches a spot of red. There sat several officers mounted on horseback.

"Scouts," his companion whispered. "I'd bet my life on it."

"But from who?" Gabriel asked, his hoarse voice making his dry throat throb. Their officers had reckoned that there were only a few hundred British left in Princeton and Cornwallis couldn't have made it up from Trenton after they had disabled some of the bridges.

Gabriel didn't have much time to ponder though or even to warn Colonel Bates. He noticed a flash of steel, a pistol being raised and pointed at their mounted commander.

His blood still boiling, still thrumming with energy from the battle before, Gabriel snatched up his musket and fired off one shot.

When the smoke cleared, the redcoats had disappeared.

* * *

**Author's Note: **So, instead of bogging you all down with a long, boring note, I'll simply say that everything mentioned in this chapter actually happened at the Battle of Princeton except for the appearance of Colonel Bates and the British scouts.

Thanks so much for reading and stay tuned for the next chapter, in which Percy shamelessly flaunts her battle prowess and proves that hubris is indeed the greatest sin of them all. I hope to have it written soon, but I have been terribly busy with my new Harry Potter fic, "Consumed". You can find it on the HPFF site or on this site, whenever I decide to post it. (Speaking of shameless, wasn't that a painfully obvious plug? Sorry about that!)

Have a great week everyone!


	22. Hubris

**Author's Note: **Sorry for the delay, everyone! I had really bad writer's block, this chapter just didn't want to be written. Thanks so much for your patience and encouraging reviews. **LazyChestnut**, **SpacePotato**, **Scribe Of All Trades** and** Mona Lisa23**, you guys are the lifeblood of this fic. Thanks a million! I'd like to dedicate this chapter to my wonderful beta, **Scribe**, who kindly puts up with all my writer's whining and still manages to find all my nasty typos. I hope you enjoy!

**Disclaimer: **I claim no ownership of the Patriot. However, I do own all OCs mentioned herein including General Julia Percy and Major Beatrice Covenly.

**Hubris**

Tavington grabbed his shoulder and drew away his fingers. They were sticky. His nostrils dilated.

Blood.

It took the pain a moment to catch up with the rest of his senses and when it did, Tavington realized that a coin-sized hunk of his left shoulder was missing.

Damned Rebels.

But as much as he wanted to draw his sword and plunge straight through the trees at the Continentals, a volley of fierce fire convinced him otherwise.

"Sir!" Bordon pulled his horse up beside him, white-faced, his great leather cap pulled low over his brow. "Sir, if Mr. Washington's force advances to Princeton…we're…we're lost. And General Percy, she's just coming down the road now. She shall march right into the whole bloody mess."

Tavington sat hunched over his saddle, struggling through the haze of searing agony to gather his thoughts. It was only a short while ago that he had left General Percy further up the road, taking with him an advanced patrol of cavalry into Princeton. There he had found the remainder of Colonel Mawhood's force, a fighting body of only two hundred soldiers. Mawhood himself had taken the rest of his regiments down to Trenton…or had tried to, at least.

The constant roar of guns in the distance told Tavington that Mawhood had not been the least bit successful in his endeavor. And sure enough, as he led his patrol down from Princeton, he was confronted by nearly all of the Rebel army…the entirety of which sat just a hundred or so yards on the other side of the brush.

Proud Percy would most assuredly be crushed. She had to be warned…

Filled with sudden panic as opposed to pain, Tavington wheeled his horse around with a snarl.

"Away!" he ordered, streaking headlong into the ominous fog and ash-laden wind.

The Rebels, by God, were on his heels.

* * *

Lean as a Spartan and eager as a hunting wolf, General Percy stalked the road to Princeton along with the 23rd Royal Welch Fusiliers. Reluctantly, she had ordered away the drums and fifes in favor of the tramp of tired feet and muddy hooves. Gloomy silence hovered between her sullen officers.

A taut, ugly grin split Julia's lips, narrowed her eyes and brought Death to rest in her countenance. And indeed, Death was everywhere, in the black, hopeless trees and hard, untilled ground. In the skeletal branches and wispy, worried clouds that even now threatened snow.

Yes, Percy thought, there was promise to this morning.

She let the grinding, thoughtful rhythm of her horse's haunches guide her hips and she swayed, amused by the complete simplicity of war itself and those that were too foolish to understand it.

Today she would kill most gladly, kill so as not to be killed herself. Today she would be crowned the victor…of Death.

The title was a heady one and it took the frantic stirring of many hooves to rouse her from her ruminations.

It was the sight of a bleeding and bewildered Tavington on the road before her that jolted her back into awareness. Officers stood in their stirrups, all poised like pointer dogs with smooth brows and clear, discerning eyes.

Throats tightened and it was hollow breath that hummed against each heart.

Percy alone parted the red sea of soldiers and trotted, unabashed, up to Tavington.

"News?" she asked him as crimson dribbled down his shoulder, clotted by macerated flesh.

And Tavington was quick to answer his General.

"The whole of the Rebel force has Mawhood fleeing from Princeton. He's left two hundred soldiers behind, trapped. And Mr. Washington…"

Percy's chest swelled with excitement.

"…advances North, straight towards us," Tavington finished.

Percy pouted defiantly. "Oh. I see."

It was Major Covenly who forced her way to the front then, who angled her horse just before Julia's and begged her with every ounce of her being.

"We retreat," she said. "Quickly. Perhaps circle around if we're lucky and make it to Trenton and…."

"And Cornwallis?" Percy interposed. Her brows jumped together. "I think not. I shouldn't want old Colonel Washington to march north for no reason. It's unthinkably rude _not _to engage him."

There were mixed murmurs, glances exchanged, all tainted with fear.

Percy looked to Tavington. "My dear boy, can you sit your horse still?"

He nodded breathlessly. "Of course, madam."

Lovingly, Percy extracted her handkerchief and wrapped it around his wound. "There's a good lad. Now hurry up, we shan't be late. No, that would never do."

The marching column was formed and reformed again until Percy was satisfied with it's neatness. Muskets were loaded and cartridges littered the road like torn flower petals.

Covenly alone would have none of it.

"Julia," she raged, ripping her hat off her head, her face suddenly losing all of its dainty, demureness. "I've done a great many things for you, supported you when others wouldn't have dared to. But this is bloody well madness!"

Percy spared her a careless smile. "Only if I lose, that is."

Covenly thought to rebuke her, but then guns rattled the horizon and all arguments were dropped.

Mr. Washington had arrived.

* * *

**Author's Note: **I'm sorry this is so short, but you all know how drabblish my battle chapters are. In case you were wondering, the British sometimes referred to Washington as "Colonel Washington" as that was the last rank he achieved in the English army.

I promise to have the next chapter up soon. Thanks for reading!


	23. The Green Plume

**Author's Note: **Finally! A new chapter! Thought I was dead, eh? Haha, not quite. But I do apologize for the delay. It took me a while to finally write this chapter and like most writers, I just love to procrastinate. However, I'd like to thank all my wonderful readers and reviewers who have helped me keep this story alive. **LazyChestnut**, **SpacePotato**, **Mona Lisa23** and **Scribe Of All Trades**. And I'd especially like to thank my amazing beta, **Scribe**, who still helped me with this chapter despite her insanely busy schedule. Thanks, guys!!

**Disclaimer: **I claim no ownership of the Patriot. However, I do own all OCs mentioned herein including General Julia Percy, Betsy and Colonel Bates.

**Chapter Twenty-Three The Green Plume**

Colonel Bates led the advance guard up to Princeton and Gabriel went along with her. They expected the march to be a straight shot with clear roads and no lobsters to hassle them on the way. What was left of the British force had gone tearing down to Trenton all helter-skelter like. And General Cornwallis himself was nowhere to be seen, probably still snug in his bed, unaware that half of his force was in the highest state of disarray and General Washington was set to win the day.

But even with those favorable odds, Gabriel couldn't shake the feeling that something was wrong. Seeing those red-coated scouts earlier had unnerved him and as he walked, stiff-legged, his musket propped against his sore shoulder, he couldn't help but wonder if those rascals had gotten wind of their maneuvers. Despite all the stealth in the world, the British could still pick up a trail if they put their wits to it. Gabriel was reminded of the old hound dogs Father kept at home. They could sniff out any birds in the marshy underbrush.

Was that what the Continental Army was, a flock of frightened birds trying to outrun the steely jaws of the mother country?

The notion didn't sit right with Gabriel and he tried to think of other things. It was a constant struggle to keep his nerves at bay. He concentrated instead on counting his steps, keeping his eyes on his feet so that he avoided each mud-filled rut.

The woman marching by his right shoulder seemed to sense his unease.

Her name was Betsy or so she had told him after she had saved him during the last skirmish. She was from Virginia, but had joined up right after news came to Williamsburg of the fighting at Lexington and Concord. Betsy had been at Bunker Hill and only just escaped with her life when the British finally took the ground. After that, she said she was more than convinced that the lobster dogs deserved less pity and more wrath. Even now, her bayonet was thick with their blood.

"What's wrong, boy?" she asked him, adjusting her musket so that it rested easily between her collarbone and neck. "You look a mite pale, dead on your feet if I didn't know better."

"I'm fine." But even as he spoke, Gabriel was forced to swallow a mouthful of bile.

Their column was marching through a thinly wooded area, the trees still shrouded with gauzy mist. Up ahead, Gabriel spied a great clearing. The road widened and led straight into Princeton. The very top of Nassau Hall was just visible.

"Can you see anything?" he asked her, his voice raw.

Betsy twisted her lips grimly. "I expect there's a fair number of them English cows about the place. Maybe not as many as we met on the road before, but some number. You know the lobsters, they'll never leave a place unguarded."

The column exited the woods and of a sudden, they were all standing in the clear.

Gabriel felt his spine stiffen. A dangerous shiver traced his back. Any good rifleman could start picking them off and they'd been thrown into a state of confusion. He'd seen it happen before and he'd seen soldiers fall in droves when they panicked.

But he kept his eyes focused on Princeton nonetheless.

"The place looks empty," he muttered, "though I do see some movement about the hall. What's that there?"

"Hold up, boy." Betsy shaded her keen eyes. "Eh…can't really tell…wait! Ah, it's about a dozen of them soldiers. Looks like they've barricaded themselves into the hall. They can't be that strong if they've taken to hiding like that. Psh! Cowards!"

Gabriel felt relief drop into his stomach like a warm draught of whiskey. That would be a job for the artillery then, not him. Captain Alexander Hamilton would bring up his guns and flush them out. Princeton would be easily taken….

The column halted. Gabriel stopped short, his worn shoes now barely visible but for the mud.

Betsy let out a low whistle, the sound fading into the bleak silence like a lone bird call.

"Something up by the tree line," she said.

Gabriel studied the old fir trees on the other side of Princeton and after a moment, he saw a tell-tale flash of crimson flutter between the green boughs.

"Lord help us," he whispered, wondering if the others had spotted it yet.

And indeed, the column rippled now, ripe with rumors and unfettered fear. Gabriel noticed Colonel Bates up by the front. She had her spyglass in her hand.

Their commanding officer studied the horizon, studied the jagged line of woodland from which a fighting force slowly emerged. And at the head of the English there rode an officer with gold on his coat.

No. Gabriel shook his head and clenched his eyes shut. _Her_ coat. He could tell from the tapered cut of her uniform that she was of the fairer sex, though she didn't make for a pretty sight, as it was.

"Mother of God." Betsy grasped his shoulder with a trembling hand. "Have they gathered up a whole regiment of reinforcements already?" She proceeded to curse the British, utilizing the most illiberal and foul language Gabriel had ever heard. But beneath her steely sentiments, he detected blank terror.

Colonel Bates wheeled her horse about and cantered to the very back of the column to consult with several officers. Gabriel watched as she hurried past and he was struck by the emptiness of her expression…and the utter desperation in her eyes.

Something was terribly wrong.

The British continued to advance behind the tree line and they even came to the edge of Princeton. Their formation stretched far, encompassing the better part of an untilled field just outside of the town. God, how many soldiers did they have?

Gabriel glanced once over his shoulder and saw Colonel Bates talking frantically with her staff. And then one of her lieutenants departed, rode straight off in the steady rain to warn General Washington. His Excellency was only a mile or so away with the rest of the army. Surely he would march up and sort things out?

Drums growled. Gabriel felt his hands freeze to the barrel of his musket. The British had themselves all turned out, all ready for a brawl. He could even make out the great green plume sticking out of the commanding officer's hat. The woman didn't mind being seen, all right.

"Percy."

The name tore through the column, making soldiers jostle out of position and look back nervously to the safety of the thicket behind them.

Betsy lowered her head. "Christ, it can't be."

"Who's that?" Gabriel managed, although his tongue stuck to the roof of his parched mouth.

"Damn it all, boy," Betsy snarled. "Don't you know Percy? She's a real British bawd, a demon. Cuts through men like cabbage and she's mad, too. I've heard the talk. Once during the last war, when she was in Germany and naught but a major, she had a bunch of men strung up for deserting. But instead of shooting them outright, like any good military woman should, she had them lashed. And the sergeant that was doing the whipping kept on at it till the men fainted. Percy wouldn't stop there, though. She called up the surgeon and had him bring his smelling salts to revive them. They were flogged to death, poor souls. And think of it! If she does _that _to her own soldiers, what's she fixing on doing to us?"

Betsy paused and shivered. "No, they don't offer you quarter, boy and if they did, you'd wish you were dead…."

"Never mind that now!" Colonel Bates rode up from the rear and surprised them both. "Keep your wits about you. Probably nothing more than a company out scouting, if that." And she trotted her horse discreetly up the column.

Gabriel blew on his numb fingers, feeling frigid worry slide into his gut like a bayonet. He wasn't foolish enough to believe soldier's talk, Father had always told him that most army folk liked to put store in tall tales and such. But still, the sudden horror that gripped their tiny force was undeniable.

And all the while, the British began to advance on Princeton.

"See there," Betsy grated. She pointed at the erect figure on horseback that cut past the trees, ambling indecently onto the snowy fields with her head held high. "That'll be Percy there, I'd bet my right leg on it. Can't you see the way she sits her horse…can't you see…God almighty." Betsy broke off with a sob.

Gabriel shuddered. Indeed, he watched the haughty officer with the green plume in her hat ride straight towards them as if they were naught but a bunch of mindless little school children.

The fifes whined, high, shrieking, sounding like banshees come to herald their death.

Gabriel checked that his gun was loaded.

The British stopped just by the border of Princeton, their muskets shouldered. Gabriel noticed the front line was made up entirely of grenadiers-crack troops, tall soldiers, broad shouldered with faces set like stone.

He'd certainly be no match for them.

"Steady now," Colonel Bates intoned.

Their company froze where it stood and what followed was an achingly tense stand-off. Some number of minutes passed. Gabriel tried to keep count, tried to figure out just how long they stayed there, watching, waiting for some grand outburst of violence and blood.

The British shattered the silence with a chant.

"Huzzah! Huzzah! HUZZAH!"

And then some nervous nelly of a Continental soldier fired directly at the opposing line.

* * *

**Author's Note: **I'll keep it short this time, as it is quite late and I don't trust my insomniac mind to remember the exact details of the battle of Princeton. Obviously, Percy didn't show up at Princeton to oppose the Americans as she is thoroughly fictional, though the remaining British soldiers did barricade themselves in Nassau Hall.

Thanks for reading! Please take the time to review. I'm a hopeless feedback junkie. Have a great week!


	24. The Spartan

**Author's Note: **A new chapter at last! Do you guys have any idea how much I've missed writing this story? My summer has been wretchedly busy, ugh, I have almost no time for my fanfiction endeavors. However, I do promise to have the next chapter up soon…all music lessons, horseback riding sojourns and Renaissance Faires will have to wait. Well, maybe not the Faires, but I do swear to make time for this story somehow. So thank you, all my patient readers and reviewers, **Mona Lisa23**, **LazyChestnut** and **Scribe Of All Trades**. I'd especially like to thank my brilliant beta, **Scribe**, for her invaluable feedback and sharp, typo-seeking eyes. I hope you enjoy!

**Disclaimer: **I claim no ownership of the Patriot. However, I do own all OCs mentioned herein including General Julia Percy, Betsy and Colonel Bates.

**Chapter Twenty-Four The Spartan**

The rain had made mud of the roads and slush of the snow and cowards of a crack British regiment. Percy herself felt the tell-tale jump of her heart that reminded her she was mortal and subject to pangs of emotion from time to time. But she washed away the fear with a throaty cough, trotting her horse up to the very front of the line standing in the field just before Princeton.

There was a band of rag-tag Rebels on the road ahead, the shredded remnant of colonial pride and stubborn dignity. The arrogant angle of their guns, perched neatly on jaunty shoulders made her sick.

Just _who_ did they think they were?

Percy forced herself to wait until the panic set in and a shot rang out like a dying man's moan, the musket ball skittering hopelessly into the skeletal underbrush.

A smile lifted the heaviness from her lips and heart.

"Make ready!" There was something decidedly plebian about the commanding general giving orders like a lean, lad of a lieutenant. But Percy relished in the provincial feel of it, indulging her lusty instincts and reminding herself that deep down she retained the natural ability to control others.

"Take aim!" Muskets flattened into a grim line, the ugly necks protruding way past the strict neatness of the 23rd's standing formation. She noticed several officers eyeing her impudently, unsure as always, but secure in the knowledge of her insanity.

Percy leered just for them.

"Fire!"

The bellow shook the earth, shattered the stately pattern of falling raindrops and ricocheted into the column of Continental soldiers.

Distant figures fell. Nameless. Faceless. Slain with practiced indiscrimination.

And it was then, that Percy realized she would win the day.

* * *

Gabriel Martin could not withhold a surprised cry as his column was thrown into confusion with men falling, women shrieking and blood…blood everywhere.

"God dammit!" Betsy reeled backwards and for one horrible moment, Gabriel thought she too had been hit.

But the woman was only raising her gun, only meaning to kill the lobsters that had dared defy reason and their hopes for victory.

And then he too was caught up in the frenzy, snatching his gun and leveling it against his aching shoulder. His position was bad, however and he knew deep down inside that he wouldn't get the shot off, as much as he'd like to.

That cocky bird with her great green plume was still prancing back and forth.

Colonel Bates seemed the most shocked of all and she hurried them into fighting formation, into a thin line that suddenly seemed like no match for the Fusiliers.

"They mean to make a go of it," she said breathlessly. And she kept saying it over and over again even as they marched into Princeton and took up on the other side of the field, just opposite of the British. Her plain statement became a pulsing mantra and Gabriel felt it weaken him, felt it destroy that immature courage nestled against his heart.

He'd never seen Colonel Bates look frightened before.

By the time they had gained the other side of the field, the British had gotten off another volley. This round slowed them and stopped some who fell like thin husks of wasted humanity into the dead grass.

Gabriel tried to ignore the panic rising within him, only steadying when Bates ordered them to halt and fire.

The familiar jolt of his musket, the scent of rotten powder assured him that they had once more settled into the rhythm of combat. He spared a second and glanced at Betsy who had her musket reloaded already.

She, like Bates, seemed undone.

"Don't look at me, boy!" she snapped shrilly. "Keep you're eye on them! Watch…watch out!"

He hadn't noticed the British moving frantically, nor the haranguing calls of their officers. Another volley streaked towards the American line.

This time Gabriel retreated a step or two, his legs shaking treacherously as he tried to regain his wits and remember what little training he had.

But Father's words of wisdom were no good now, he realized. There was a great gap in their line, wide enough to drive two wagons through.

The British were already fixing their bayonets.

* * *

Tavington was slumped in his saddle in the thicket just behind the infantry's line. Percy had ordered their rather small cavalcade of Light Horse to remain there and he hated to be kept out of the action, despite the slashed skin and blood that dripped from his wounded arm.

She'd made a scavenger of him, a bird of prey meant to swoop amongst the dying and put the wounded Rebels out of their misery. There was no glory in _that_ and less honor.

He watched the action on the field with disdainful detachment, a child's pout puckering his lips and setting his jaw. After all his hard work, after all his scrapping and spying and scrounging, he'd been left behind.

Why, he'd be better off with damned Andre in New York.

After a volley or three, the Rebels' loose formation broke. Tavington saw the infantry fix bayonets and he ground his teeth.

Yes, it was all almost over now and he had done naught, done naught but sit there in the rain.

By God, he had thought Percy would do him a good turn this day, had hoped that she might….

And there she was, trotting plaintively up to him as if she were on parade.

"Madam?" he began.

She shortened her reins and pulled her horse's head up. "You said you wanted to learn."

Tavington was wordless.

"Follow me."

As quickly as she had come, Percy rode off and Tavington did not hesitate to follow. He took the Light Horse onto the field behind her and had just drawn his sword when the order of "charge" rang out.

The drums thundered behind them and he gave his mare full rein to fly over the ground.

The Rebels, surprisingly, did not retreat.

The 23rd Fusiliers slammed straight into them.

All was chaos for a few heartbeats and it took Tavington a breath to gather his wits, to lift his sword and bring it down in the face of skinny, shaking lad.

And he felt nothing as the boy crumpled, felt nothing as life slipped away before his eyes and mingled with blood in the dead grass.

A great sense of hopelessness filled him then, as he realized that this was humanity, men and women at their zenith fighting like dogs over something they didn't fully understand. But it didn't disgust him, no.

If this was all the world had to offer, well then, he would come out on top.

He searched for his mentor amongst the shredded hides of horses and humans and found her engaged with an officer. Percy was quicker than a demon and more clever than any hell-sent siren. And she was also impartial. The Yankee officer fell to her blade, followed by a leather-faced woman who tried to gut Percy with a rusty bayonet.

Tavington drove his harried mount straight through the bedlam and fought to be by her side, to be nearer to the core of his existence.

But a Rebel woman on horseback wedged between them, wild with fear and animalistic desperation.

"Damn your blood!" she screamed, the sound raw, primal. "Damn your blood and damn you to hell!"

Percy's horse slipped on ice and the General herself was hard put to deflect the madwoman's thrust.

She parried, but was thrown to the side of the saddle. Tavington watched as she fell, some desecrated seraph, to the earth.

The Rebel woman raised her sword and plunged it downward, meaning to puncture Percy's lungs.

Tavington pierced her heart first, his blade sliding through sinew and ribs with a terrific crack as the chest wall was spilt open.

The Rebel retched blood and fell forward against her horse's neck.

Tavington extended his arm and pulled Percy to her feet.

Without warning, she pressed a hungry kiss against his mouth, her tongue swiping along his lips.

"Well done." Like a hare, she leapt back into her saddle and looked around.

Tavington followed her gaze and saw that the fight was slowing, the melee petering out. Someone breezed past him.

"Madam!" he gasped, while raising his sword and loosening his limbs for another blow. A Rebel soldier had jumped into the saddle of his dead officer and was cantering away down the road with the body bobbing grotesquely before him.

Percy put her hand on his wrist. "Let him go," she said. "He has good cause." And then, with the most pleased smile he had ever seen, she lifted her hat and screamed, "HUZZAH!"

The response from the victorious Fusiliers resounded throughout Princeton. "Huzzah! Huzzah for Percy! Huzzah for the Spartan!"

* * *

Gabriel heard the British chanting back in Princeton, but he did not slow his horse until their cries were a dim, haunting echo at his back. When he finally slid from the saddle, weeping, it was with the dead Colonel Bates in his arms.

She'd been butchered. She'd been stabbed the back.

Cowards, he sobbed silently. Damned cowards.

Bates' lifeless eyes stared at him, wide with terrible, marrow-freezing horror. But Gabriel forced himself to look at her, to remember exactly what had happened that day.

Peace be damned. Every one of those lobsters deserved to die.

* * *

**Author's Note: **Percy's victory at Princeton is entirely fictitious. In actuality, the Americans marched upon Princeton and found two hundred or so British soldiers barricaded in Nassau Hall. Heavy artillery fire and overwhelming odds soon forced them to surrender, however. The outcome of the action, therefore, favored the American troops and the day was most assuredly theirs.

This will be the last of the "campaign" chapters for a time. After all, there is that rather awkward Tavington-Percy-Andre triangle to deal with!

Thanks so much for reading. Please take the time to review. I'd love to hear from you.


	25. Desperation

**Author's Note: **Hello all, I'm back! (No thanks to work and college). I haven't had much time for fanfiction over the past two months, due to real life commitments, but thankfully I've settled down to work on this story once more. The next five chapters have already been written, so there shouldn't be any delay in updating. I'd like to thank all those who have supported this story. Your encouragement and feedback have been invaluable. I hope you enjoy!

**Disclaimer: **I claim no ownership of the Patriot. However, I do own all OCs mentioned herein including General Julia Percy and Major Beatrice Covenly.

**Chapter Twenty-Five Desperation**

There was victory in the air and in the ground and in the thawing chunks of ice that thickened the puddles along Princeton's streets. Tavington had had his wound seen too and was relieved to be attended by a male doctor, a man with impersonal hands who bandaged him up with instinctive efficiency. He then returned to the small house in town Percy had commandeered for her use. There was much to be done after the battle, dispatches to be sent, orders to be given and dead to be buried.

The harried activity around Princeton left Tavington light-headed and he only just managed to stumble his way back to headquarters, the scent of dried blood still lingering in his nose.

Cornwallis and his troops had arrived rather belatedly after the melee with the Rebel forces. By then, the Continental's advance guard-or what was left of it-had fled up to Somerset County Courthouse with the rest of Mr. Washington's army.

Percy didn't press them, nor did she think to pursue them. Her Madamship was wise enough to settle for a sound victory and she left the Rebels to lick their wounds while British morale climbed to dizzying heights.

Cornwallis could do naught but commend her and Tavington was surprised to see how abashed the man was, how utterly humiliated that he had allowed Washington to slip by his slumbering army up to Princeton.

Thank God for General Percy, he had said. Yes, thank God for her. And all over the camp, soldiers muttered the same sentiments.

Thank God for clever General Percy. And curse that wretched Howe for hiding away in Manhattan.

Tavington knew the commander-in-chief would recoil from the widespread reaction and he would curse himself for his languidness.

Percy, wild and wicked and womanly, had proven her worth.

Tavington was admitted into headquarters by a yawning sentry and he stood in the narrow hall for a full minute, allowing the snow to drip from his boots and form saucer-sized puddles all over the muddy floor. The warmth from a diligently fed fire eased the aches from his bones, but did nothing for the wrenching pain in his shoulder. Sleep threatened to shut his eyes. When had he last been able to rest?

The cramped kitchen of the house, which Percy had put to use as a meeting room, was shockingly empty. Tavington stuck his head around the door and saw Major Covenly sitting at the scrubbed table alone with a mug of coffee.

Just a short hour ago, the place had been brimming with officers and Cornwallis himself.

What had happened?

Covenly, who was resting her chin on her knuckles, batted her grey eyes wearily and looked up. A peaceful sort of smile curved her lips. "Back in one piece, Captain?"

Tavington moved his shoulder tenderly, the torn flesh about his upper arm pulled taut with agony. "Not entirely. Where has His Lordship gone to? Certainly they haven't retired already?"

"No." Covenly sipped primly from her mug. "Didn't you hear the drums before? General Cornwallis is taking his army up to New Brunswick. We're to stay here for two days and if the Rebels retire to winter camp, Her Madamship will march back to Manhattan."

"Ah, Percy must be frothing at the mouth then." Tavington stepped just inside the kitchen, ducking his head to avoid the low beams that stretched across the ceiling. The room smelled like hay, he thought and looking down, he noticed the straw scattered at his feet meant to absorb muddy footprints.

Covenly rose slowly and fetched a tin mug from the sideboard. "No, Julia is quite content I daresay. She's upstairs, writing a letter to Clinton." Her eyebrows twitched slightly as she reached for the kettle in the hearth. "I think we all deserve a good rest after today. There is no better way to end the campaigning season, after all."

"Indeed." Tavington accepted the mug of coffee she handed him and downed it all in one burning gulp. "Well, I should retire then. Do you mind? My spirit would be much improved after some sleep. Is there anything else that needs doing?"

Covenly leaned over the table, her palms flat against the smooth surface. "Hmm, Julia _did _ask for you. But I'll make an excuse, if you'd like. Your countenance does suggest a certain fatigue." She waved a hand in front of her face. "Just be quiet going up the stairs."

Tavington nodded and handed the mug back to Covenly. "My thanks." He had just crossed the threshold into the hall when she reached out and lightly tapped his back.

"Here." Covenly removed a length of white linen from her pocket and indicted the stale, yellow bandage wrapped about his arm.

Tavington took the clean cloth from her and rebound his wound carefully. "I'm much obliged," he said.

"It's no matter." Covenly scrunched up her nose and for an instant, she lost her dovish appearance and looked entirely girlish. "An officer of your standing shouldn't be drifting around in dirty linen."

The muscles in Tavington's jaw froze in shock. An officer of _his_ standing? Covenly was certainly flattering him and she was _never_ one to banter about empty words.

The hot coffee began to scorch his gut and quickly (yet politely) he bade the Major good night. And he did take care to tread carefully on the stairs lest some unsound plank of wood creak aloud and alert Percy of his presence. His caution, alas, was not needed, as Her Madamship could be found standing in the doorway at the head of the stairs. Clearly, she'd been expecting him.

"Captain, come within." Percy stepped back into the tight room she had claimed for herself and left the door open for him.

Tavington tried to stifle a sigh. He followed her into the chamber, shut the door and leaned against it.

Percy took up a seat in a tiny chair nestled against a slanted writing desk. She had just finished a letter and was reaching for a stick of sealing wax.

"Sit down," she directed.

Tavington was forced to make due on the bed, as there was no other chair available. He perched himself on the edge of it and instantly, the pain in his legs began to lessen.

Percy took her time sealing the letter and after she had done, she turned about in her chair to face him. Their knees grazed against each other.

"I won't keep you long," she said, tilting her head just so the shadows from the fire glanced off her features.

Tavington noticed that she too, looked weary. Exhausted, really. Her heavy red coat lay sprawled across a trunk at the foot of the bed and her shirtsleeves were dingy with flecks of grim and blood darkening the cuffs.

"Madam." Tavington inclined his head in a half-bow, signaling his attention.

A sudden smile set Percy's face ablaze.

"Thank you." She reached across the short space that divided them and clasped his hand. "Thank you for being so loyal, William."

Tavington's mind was hazy, but shock still managed to register. First Covenly, now Percy! Why should he bother to woo women during peace time when they fair melted before him after battles?

Percy laughed lowly, obviously amused at his surprise. "I have asked so much of you-more than I would ever ask of Andre, if you are wondering." Her eyes shone.

"I wasn't, madam," Tavington blurted out.

Percy gazed at him with cool detachment. "Let me be frank for once, William. There is a certain air of desperation about you that-"

Tavington began to protest, but Percy raised her hand.

"Let me finish." A look of stern contemplation passed over her face and Tavington realized that he had neither the will nor the strength to oppose her anymore.

Percy sat back in her chair, which was crudely carved, a farmer's throne that contrasted vilely with her own air of practiced regality.

"When I was a young girl," she started, her voice now light and dreamy, touched with the nectar that reminiscence brings, "I had no ambition. My mother taught me to be shy, meek, _wretched_ and I pressed those lessons to my heart as the most worthy of virtues. And then I was sent to live with my aunt in Scotland-for reasons I shan't divulge now-and I learned what it was to be a woman." She paused and smiled, entirely satisfied with whatever she had learned from her spinster benefactress.

Tavington quietly wondered to himself what schooling she had received in madness.

"By seventeen I was a fair bluestocking. I wrote plebian essays, scribbled late into the night hunched over a stub of a candle. I don't know what I intended to do with my prose and my aunt neither approved nor disapproved. And in truth, I myself neither approved nor disapproved-until one day, I simply decided that I wanted to join the army.

"But _how_ did you decide?" Tavington asked despite himself.

"How did _you_ decide?" Her eyebrows lifted ever so slightly.

Tavington made to answer, to offer up the standard reply-he needed money, lusted after power-but he found himself mute.

Percy's smile widened. "You were desperate." She paused and shrugged. "As was I. And it is that same desperation in you that I find so compelling."

Tavington was too weary to jump at her invitation, so Percy did instead.

"I'm offering you my friendship, William," she said, leaning forward with a lazy grin. Her hand tightened over his. "Your desperation has charmed me and I sense, nay, I _know_ that you have spent as many sleepless nights as I, dreaming with your eyes wide open, yearning for that fulfillment you can only find here. Let us be friends then, eh?"

Once more, Tavington did not speak, but assented silently and from that very moment, in that chilly little attic of a Yankee house, they became companions, Percy and he. However, their friendship was not akin to anything she shared with Andre or even Clinton, but a separate, singular peace and understanding.

And Tavington, for his part, relished in every aspect of their peculiar camaraderie and maintained, as promised, his sworn loyalty to the mightiest woman he would ever come to know.

* * *

**Author's Note: **Thanks so much for reading! The next chapter will be posted soon


	26. Philadelphia

**Author's Note: **Hello all! I'm back again with another chapter. Sorry it took me two weeks to update-I was trying to finish up NaNo and a pysch research paper at the same time. This installment skips ahead almost a year to the Philadelphia and Saratoga campaigns of 1777. Admittedly, if I detailed absolutely everything that happened between January of '77 to October of '77, this story would end up being about a 1,000 chapters long. (And the Philly campaign happens to be my favorite in America Revolution history!) So I jumped ahead a little, I hope you'll forgive me. As always, I would like to thank my wonderful readers and reviewers, **LazyChestnut**, **Cid62**, **SpacePotato**, and **Mona Lisa23**. And of course, I have to thank my wonderful beta, **Scribe**, for her continued dedication and help. I hope you enjoy!

**Disclaimer: **I claim no ownership of the Patriot. However, I do own all OCs mentioned herein including General Julia Percy, Major Beatrice Covenly and Major Honora Smyth

**Chapter Twenty-Six Philadelphia**

_October 1777-Philadelphia, Pennsylvania_

Tavington sighed. With nimble (though slightly trembling) fingers, he refolded the dispatch and stared at the broken red seal for a full minute. He was standing in the hallway of Benjamin Franklin's house-a most uncommon place to be quartered-and from within the dining room he heard a drunken peal of laughter.

"We must have a toast then. Come now, a toast," a male voice cried. "To Dame General Julia Percy, the hero of Princeton. Raise your glasses…Captain Andre, raise your glass. Once more-to Dame General Julia Percy, the hero of Princeton, _now_ the scourge of Germantown-"

"Oh lah!" Covenly interrupted with a giggle.

"Truly, that is an exaggeration," Julia put in, sounding notably sober. "There was so much damn fog-the Rebels hadn't a chance."

"Over thirty prisoners taken!" the male voice continued sloppily, "let us…let us drink to that then."

"If you insist." That was Andre, miserable, sullen, pouting as usual.

There was a moment of silence. Tavington heard the unsteady clink to glasses, followed by a resounding "Huzzah!" and "God Save the King!".

He waited until the company had finished drinking before intruding, standing just outside the door where only Julia could see him and not the company of assembled officers.

They were holding a long overdue victory dinner, meant, of course, to celebrate the recent capture of Philadelphia two weeks before. After the closing of the campaign of 1776, Howe had turned his attention to the Rebel stronghold in Pennsylvania. With plans approved by Lord Germain, the commander-in-chief slowly began to advance on the city. In late August, he moved fifteen thousand troops to the northern end of the Chesapeake Bay, outflanking Washington's eleven thousand soldiers and driving him back to Brandywine in early September.

There had been some action along the Brandywine Creek itself on the 11th, in which Washington was defeated but still managed to keep his army together. Afterwards, some minor skirmishing had occurred including an encounter at Paoli, which the Rebels had promptly dubbed a "massacre". Nevertheless, Cornwallis marched into Philadelphia and took it on the 26th.

The Continental Congress had fled to Lancaster, or so Tavington had heard.

Unfortunately, the army had little time to settle in the city. Howe took nine thousand troops to nearby Germantown and left three thousand behind to defend his recent capture.

Julia herself had been unsure about the move, though understandably anxious to pursue Washington and drain the lifeblood from the ragtag Rebel forces. On the 4th of October, the Yankees marched on Germantown and would have entirely surprised them by approaching under the cover of a thick fog-had their progress not been so stunted by the same bad weather.

But it was the fortifying of the stone Clivedon-the country seat of Judge Chew-that finished the Rebels. While they fired futilely on the thick walls, companies under Colonel Musgrave inflicted heavy causalities from within the safety of the house.

The result of the skirmish was a complete victory for the British, even though several high-ranking officers, including General James Agnew, were felled on the field.

There was more to consider, however, besides clear cut victories. Tavington looked down at the dispatch once more and hesitated.

From out of the shadows, he saw Julia and her company-Major Covenly, Lord Francis Rawdon and several other distinguished officers, enjoying another toast.

He glanced at Andre, who was seated by Julia's right elbow, but nonetheless morose. Perhaps the man knew already, knew what dreadful tidings Tavington now held in his hands.

But the again, Andre had been naught but gloomy since Julia's return to Manhattan after the victory at Princeton. General Clinton's arrival had further soured his attitude and Tavington rightly sensed that the Captain was tiring of his role as Her Madamship's paramour.

Or perhaps he was simply jealous.

Tavington kept his musings to himself though, as he was content enough with his secure position and standing.

Now, however, he stepped forward cautiously, cleared his throat and stealthily beckoned to Julia.

She noticed him at once, waited a beat and then rose to excuse herself, wine glass still in hand.

"William, you ought to be with us," she said in an undertone as they stepped out into the hall together.

Tavington lightly touched her shoulder and pressed the dispatch into her empty hand. "Madam."

"What's this? Still reading my mail, I see." She was perfumed with wine and a bit shaky.

Tavington bit his lip, wondering if she was in any condition to take this news, this gut-wrenching, horrible news.

Julia moved two paces down the hall, just outside the warmth and laughter of the dining room. She set her wine glass down on a side table and ground one fingernail against her teeth.

"This is news from Burgoyne?" Her voice jumped an octave higher.

Tavington stood by her elbow. "Yes, madam." He clenched his hands, sweat forming a slick film over his palms.

Julia read in silence.

From within the dining room, there was much talk and the general clatter of heavy boots on a good, polished floor.

Lord Rawdon was saying something, offering another toast perhaps. Andre mumbled something in reply.

But Tavington ignored the guests and left them to Bacchus. Now, he had eyes only for Julia, who's shoulders had slumped, the letter in her hand limp.

"Jesus," she gasped.

Tavington shut his eyes for an instant, felt her pain. It plummeted down to his gut like a lump of ice and then melted, sending the frost through his veins.

"Burgoyne!" Julia whirled on him. "He has surrendered to the Rebels at Saratoga!"

Tavington stared at her blankly, utterly speechless.

Uneasy silence sat between them and Julia finally collapsed into a nearby chair.

"Good God," she said and that was all.

It seemed entirely surreal, the whole matter and Tavington leaned against the wall, his fingers dashing over the powder blue paint.

It had been decided some time ago, that General John Burgoyne would take his army and march down from the northernmost reaches of New York, meeting General Howe and his forces in the middle of the colony and effectively sundering the thirteen colonies. This separation of North and South, it was believed, would bring the rebellion to a swift, ungainly halt and Burgoyne himself had wagered that the war would be over by Christmas.

Tavington, however, had felt somewhat removed from Burgoyne's actions to the North and had only heard snatches of news from Julia at staff meetings. But from what he had deciphered, the plan to meet in the middle of New York had somehow gone awry. Howe did not join with Gentleman Johnny, leaving his comrade to fend for himself in the wilderness where the entire army was forced to blunder through thick forests, cutting trees down to make a path to accommodate both baggage and guns.

And now this had come. Burgoyne had seen action with the Rebels and was forced to surrender to them

But how? How could this have happened?

Julia had her hand to her chest now and she was breathing unevenly. "My God, what a blow," she panted and dropped the letter on the floor by her chair. "Howe must be furious and…Jesus."

Tavington wanted to say something, but found himself unable to do so. Ah, just when they had captured Philadelphia…just when Washington was licking his wounds from Germantown…

Andre came out into the hall, perhaps attracted by the notable silence. He was an awfully suspicious fellow, that Tavington knew. Ever since Trenton, Percy had come to rely on him more than her lover and she treated Tavington much more kindly, much more fairly than any of her staff officers.

Now Andre was frowning, his pert, handsome face darkened by distrust. He folded his arms across his chest and sidled past Tavington with an arrogant toss of his head.

"Julia, why have you left us?" he asked in a low, guttural whisper that was clearly only meant for Her Madamship's ears.

"Never mind," she replied with ruthless indifference. "Go back to the party, John."

"I'd rather-"

"Go back to the party."

He was being forced away once more and Tavington felt the wave of his frustration.

"I only meant to inquire after your well-being," he remarked bitterly, earning a raised eyebrow from Julia.

"And you would do well to go back to our guests," Julia bit back, "though what cheer your bring them, I cannot fathom."

Andre stiffened and limped away, wounded. But before returning to the dining room, he cast Tavington an offended sort of glare that was at once pathetic and intimidating. When he had gone, Julia retrieved the letter and folded it with surprisingly steady hands.

"Howe has blundered his last campaign here in the colonies," she said. "Lord Germain won't stand for this. I suppose I should pleased, in a way. He'll certainly be recalled to England-but ah, at what cost?"

"There is fortune in everything," Tavington offered.

Julia shook her head. "So I would hope. But you, William, you should return to the party. I must think now. Make an excuse for me. And don't tell them what has happened yet."

Julia retired upstairs, leaving Tavington with an awkward sense of loneliness in the hall. He at once thought to return to the gathering, but could not face the inherent gaiety of the party. It all seemed so desperately foolish to him now, a celebration that was certainly premature and not warranted.

He instead passed by the dining room door, peered inside and grappled with an excuse for Julia. She was a perpetual sufferer of medical maladies, he could certainly conjure one and ascribe it to her sudden disappearance. The guests would be too careless with wine to second guess him.

Tavington stepped casually into the room, hovering a cautious foot from the table which was covered with a fine white linen and dotted with the remains of a sumptuous meal and drink. Lord Rawdon was closest to him, an officer of the Irish peerage and well respected amongst his fellows and the command as a capable soldier.

Tavington had little to do with him, so far, though Julia had once spoken of him in passing, hoping to snag him for her staff. He realized she was attracted to the sort of glittering young men that exuded a sense of promise. In the sentiment, he found enough flattery to satisfy his own ego-for he was obviously counted as one such solider. But, on the other hand, the notion worked furiously to unsettle him, for each colleague might quickly turn his cheek and become a rival-like Andre.

Who was now missing from the company, he noticed.

The head seat was empty, along with the one directly to its right. Covenly still occupied the left, sitting across from another female officer, a Major Honora Smyth who had a distinct reputation for being as drunk and impetuous as she was beautiful. She now reclined in her chair, thick auburn curls spilling down her back, secured not by a simple black queue, but by a golden clasp that made her appear entirely opulent.

Tavington ignored her delicate peals of laughter, having learned not to meddle with any lady above the rank of sergeant. Benton had been enough of a trifle and she was only a camp surgeon.

The guests fell silent now at his sudden arrival and Tavington wondered if his very presence suggested disaster. Perhaps his face had paled in the passing minutes, hinting at the trouble that had ensnared General Burgoyne and his troops.

But he managed a smooth smile, nonetheless, snatching up a nearly full wine glass and draining the half of it.

"General Percy has retired for the night. She sent me to bid you good evening. Something about a headache, I believe."

As he had predicted, the excuse was accepted and he removed himself to the outer hall, where autumnal breezes had begun to seep under the doors and through the walls of the otherwise well-appointed house.

He took a moment to gaze up the stairs and into the darkness, where Julia stewed-or perhaps meditated over what course might be best. Of late, she had become less insolent towards Howe, instead falling back upon Clinton's support.

Tavington once more suspected that the two were conspiring, though whatever plot they worked they worked from afar, as Clinton was still in New York. If Howe dared to accuse them of murmurings, he himself might expect to be called delusion.

Julia and Clinton were an odd pair, all right, but no longer suspicious.

The party within the dining room continued and Tavington felt his stomach clench.

_Poor fools. They have no notion…none whatsoever._

He was surprised then by Smyth's sudden appearance, as she was followed out into the hall by one of her posh servants.

"I'm leaving," she said, the tone of her voice somewhat less breathy and more direct. Her eyes were clear and concise.

_She must sense the disturbance_, Tavington mused, but he said nothing.

"I suppose I shall see you again, soon enough," the Major told him as she slipped into her fine cloak and took her hat upon her head. "Give my regards to Captain Andre, will you?"

"I do not know where he has gone," Tavington admitted. He looked plaintively over his shoulder, half-expecting the man to come creeping out of the shadows and back into life.

Smyth only smiled brilliantly. "I'm sure he'll turn up sooner or later. Good evening."

Tavington affected a bow and earned a stiff salute from her in return.

"Never mind the dark," he heard her say to her small servant once they were out in Philadelphia's streets. "We have not far to travel."

* * *

**Author's Note: **Thanks so much for taking the time to read!


End file.
